Page 68 of At First Dance
You say “stay,” and every door in me un-swings…
My throat catches on that last word because it’s not real English, yet it’s exactly right. By the time the moon ladders up the window frame, I have a song that’s too soft for arenas and exactly right for porches. I nod to myself like a person choosing to choose.
I’m washing my mug when the world goes dark for a heartbeat—the bulb over the sink blinks, then comes back. Far off, thunder rolls lazily like a stagehand clearing his throat. The forecast said storms tomorrow. The air says sooner.
I dry the mug and set it upside down, then line it with its match like order will hold what feeling can’t. Then I crawl into bed, still damp at the ends of my braid from an earlier shower, and stare at the ceiling fan while the first pinpricks of rain test the roof.
The last thing I think before sleep takes me is not a lyric, not a plan, not a worry I can hold up to the door like a badge.
It’s his voice in my ear in the bath, low and sure.The world can wait.
Tonight, I let it.
Chapter Thirteen – Rowan
The heat hangs thick in the air like something waiting to snap. I’m familiar with the feeling.
I’ve been dancing around Ivy all morning, both of us pretending we don’t feel it. She's been in and out of the barn since sunrise, feeding the goats like it’s the most natural thing in the world to be back here.
Like she never left.
But I haven’t forgotten the pictures. And I haven’t forgotten the silence that followed.
Still… when she passed me this morning with that tiny smile, a stray strand of hair caught on her bottom lip, and I had to stop myself from reaching out. From tucking it behind her ear. From dragging my thumb across the soft curve of her mouth.
Instead, I nodded. Silent. Guarded. Like always. It’s safer that way. Except it isn’t, and we both know it.
Especially not when her top sticks to her skin in this August heat, or when she hums under her breath while brushing one of the horses. She’s a walking dare. And I’m not known for backing down from a challenge.
But damn if she doesn’t scare the hell out of me. I don’t know how to be around her without feeling like I’m going to combust.
And judging by the flush in her cheeks every time our arms brush or her voice catches on my name… she feels it, too.
Hell.
I wipe a hand across my forehead and shove my gloves into the back pocket of my jeans. The sky is too blue. The clouds are too still.
Something’s coming. And I’m not just talking about her.
I head to the feed shed, grabbing the bolt cutter I’d meant to fix since May. Ivy perches on the fence across the pasture, legs swinging, that loose braid hanging over her shoulder like it’s taunting me.
She waves. I grunt.
Progress.
I turn away before I say something I’ll regret.
The radio crackles to life in the work truck, volume cranked low. At first, it’s just static, then a voice cuts through—urgent and clipped.
“...dry brush fire reported near the edge of Mrs. Danner’s property, off North Ridge Road. Volunteer responders requested. Fire crew is en route from Seabrook, ETA thirty minutes.”
Shit.
I bolt for the truck, heart hammering.
Mrs. Danner lives less than two miles from here. Her pasture butts right up against ours in spots, and this time of year, it’s bone-dry. All it would take is one spark—one careless flick of a cigarette—to light the place up.
I throw the door open and grab my gear—gloves, rope, shovel, and the old metal water buckets that rattle like hell in the truck bed.
