I stare at Jack from across the dirt dance floor.
He’s still on the fence line, shoulders relaxed but eyes alert. He finishes whatever he’s saying into the radio and pockets it, then looks up—like he feels me staring.
Our eyes lock.
My heart does something stupid.
Jack’s gaze holds mine, steady and intense, and I swear the noise around us fades. Like the band is playing only for us. Like the lights were strung just to spotlight the space between our bodies.
I lift my lemonade cup in a tiny salute, because I refuse to be the first one to break eye contact like a coward.
Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile.
Then he pushes off the fence line and starts walking toward me.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
He moves through the crowd like it parts for him without even realizing it. People step aside. A couple of girls in denim shorts whisper to each other, glancing at him like he’s a walking daydream. He doesn’t look at them. His attention is a straight line.
Right to me.
By the time he reaches me, my lemonade cup is suddenly very interesting.
“Miss Hart,” he says, voice low.
“Jack,” I answer, then realize I said it like a sigh.
He looks me over with that slow, assessing gaze, like he’s checking for injuries. Or like he’s cataloging what he wants.
I’m not sure which is worse.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m great,” I say brightly. “I have a brownie. My brother assigned it to me like a mission.”
Jack’s mouth twitches again. “Wyatt’s worried.”
“He’s always worried,” I say, because if I sayI’m worried too,I might shake.
Jack’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve stayed where the lights are. Good.”
I cross my arms, trying to pretend I’m not warmed all the way through by his approval. “So you’re watching me.”
“Yes.”
“Like a hawk.”
“Like security,” he corrects.
“Like a very tall, very grumpy hawk,” I insist.
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he glances toward the dance floor. The band launches into a slower song—less boot-stompy, more sway-and-sigh. Couples drift together like magnets.
Jack looks back at me. “Dance.”
