Page 9 of At First Dance
It smells like him. Cedar. Soap. A note of hay and sun.
The feeling that follows is embarrassingly big for such a simple thing. People give me clothes all the time. Wardrobe racks, stylist pulls, boxes with handwritten notes that don’t smell like anyone. This is different. It’s a thing that belongs to a person and is offered without ceremony. No cameras. No barter. Just… warm.
A paper bag waits on the little table by the window, a Post-it slapped to the top in block letters.
Eat.
I smile so hard my cheeks hurt. Inside, I find two breakfast burritos wrapped in foil and still pleasantly warm, plus napkins and a plastic fork I definitely won’t need. I unwrap one and take a careful bite of the egg, cheese, peppery potatoes, and a little heat that wakes up the back of my throat. I make a noise I’d like to pretend I don’t make over food, then lean a hip against the counter and let the cottage be quiet around me.
My phone blinks face down on the counter, the way I left it last night. I turn it over like I’m lifting a heavy stone.
Seventeen texts. Four missed calls. A calendar ping I absolutely ignore.
Celeste:
Where are you? Call me.
Publicist (Mara):
Label wants to confirm your availability for the June slate. Touch base this morning?
Celeste:
You’ve got a brand meeting at 11a CST. Do not be late.
Crew:
Hey, stranger. Jacket back in your orbit yet?
Bailey:
Want to try a bit of heaven?
The last two make me snort, and I make sure to reply to them and them alone. I drop the phone and push it away with one finger, like it might bite.
“Not today,” I tell the cottage, which does not argue.
When I open the door again, morning air slips inside and tugs at my hair. The yard is dew-damp and gold around the edges, like someone dipped the world in honey and let it drip. I step outside in bare feet and Rowan’s hoodie—ridiculous and perfect—and breathe until my ribs feel like they might behave.
By the time I pad down the path toward the bigger house, I’ve talked myself out of—and back into—texting my mother three times. I land on a compromise. I send Mara a quick note.
Me:
Alive. Safe. Taking a breather. Zoom later?
A text bubbles back instantly.
Publicist (Mara):
Relieved. Take the morning. I’ll fend off the dragons.
Bless Mara.
I veer toward the barn, drawn by the rhythm—a steady clank and a low voice of something living. Rowan’s inside, andthe horses know. They lean heavy necks over stall doors and track him like planets around a sun. He glances up when my shadow spills across the threshold.
“You found it,” he says, the corner of his mouth tipping like he knew I would.
“The hoodie?” I tug the sleeve. “It kidnapped me. I’m filing a report.”
