Page 10 of At First Dance
“Stockholm syndrome sets in quickly.” His eyes skate over me—bare legs, big sweatshirt, messy hair—and then do the gentlemanly thing of pretending they didn’t. “You eat?”
I lift the other half of the burrito. “Working on it.”
“Good.” He jerks his chin at a bucket propped by the door. “Walk with me? Just be wary that it will heat quickly once the sun decides to unleash its fury.”
I should say no. I have a long list of things to avoid today—gossip sites, my mother, anything with fluorescent lighting—and none of them sound appealing. Following the cowboy in his natural habitat despite the impending heat.
I fall into step beside him, our shoulders brushing once when the aisle narrows. Electricity might be dramatic, but a hum takes up residence under my skin when he’s close. We step out into the brightness and past the paddock toward a fence line that looks mostly fine to my untrained eye.
“Two posts loose.” He talks like he’s narrating for an audience. “One staple popped. Coyotes have been testing it lately.”
“Testing?” I echo, eyeing the trees like a wild dog might stroll out with a clipboard.
He gives a slight smile. “They’re smart. They watch. They push where you don’t think anyone’s looking.”
“Relatable,” I mutter.
He doesn’t tease. He just sets the bucket down, then pulls out a hammer, a fist full of U-shaped staples, and a pair of pliers the length of my forearm.
“Want to try?” he asks, mildly.
“Absolutely not,” I say, because reflex. My feet betray me and carry me closer anyway. I stop with my hands tucked into the kangaroo pocket of his hoodie like I’ve handcuffed myself on purpose.
He hears the second answer under the first, but he only nods. “Watch, then.”
He braces a boot against the bottom wire, leans the post with a shoulder, and works efficiently and without fanfare. The pliers bite down, the wire sings a clean, bright note, and his forearms rope and release. There’s a smear of dust along a vein I have no business staring at. He sets a staple, holds it steady with two fingers, and taps once. Neat. Sure. The metal seats; the line tightens.
“You want tension,” he says, eyes on the fence, “but not too much. Yank like hell and you’ll snap it. Baby it, and it’ll sag, then the first curious nose is through.”
“Moderation,” I offer.
“Control,” he corrects softly. “Let the tool do the work. You guide.”
Heat gathers low and ridiculous at the word guide. I lean my shoulder against the next post, pretending it needs supervision. He keeps moving down the run, and the space between us is an elastic thing—stretching, relaxing, humming with everything we’re not doing.
He glances over once, quick and unreadable, then sets the last staple and tests the line. It thrums, tight and obedient. My pulse answers like a show-off.
We keep walking. The morning warms by degrees. Somewhere behind the barn, a rooster finds a reason to bedramatic. When we swing around the north paddock, a sound like a tiny trumpet goes off. I jump because dignity is a luxury, and Rowan laughs.
“Easy,” he says, angling me toward the source.
A calf blinks up at me with sticky lashes and a constellation of caramel patches. She gives an indignant snort again and then sneezes directly on my bare thigh. The warmth is unexpected and honestly adorable.
“Oh my God.” I press a hand to my chest and start laughing, helpless and bright. “Ma’am. Boundaries.”
“She’s three weeks old,” Rowan says, trying and failing to hide his amusement. “Boundaries are a Q4 goal.”
“What’s her name?”
“Doesn’t have one yet.”
“Butterscotch,” I say immediately, because of course.
He looks at the calf, then looks at me. “Fitting.”
“Welcome to the world, Butterscotch,” I tell her solemnly, and she sneezes again for emphasis. I wipe my leg with the inside hem of the hoodie and pretend that’s not basically sacrilege.
Back at the barn, he washes his hands at the utility sink and passes me a clean towel without asking. When he turns, his face is easy in a way I’m not used to seeing in men—work done, morning unfolding, company not resented.
