I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Dance,” he repeats, like it’s a command.
“I don’t take orders,” I say automatically.
Jack’s gaze drops to my mouth. “You do when they’re for your safety.”
“What about dancing is?—”
“Controlled environment,” he says. “Crowd’s watching. Lights are up. You stay in my reach.”
My cheeks heat. “In your reach.”
He holds my gaze, expression unreadable. “Yes.”
My pulse skitters.
I should say no. I should make a joke and vanish behind the lemonade stand.
But my body takes a tiny step toward him like it’s possessed.
Jack extends his hand.
Big. Warm. Steady.
I stare at it like it’s a live wire.
“Jack,” I whisper, suddenly shy. “People will talk.”
“Let them,” he says.
My breath catches. “You don’t care what they think?”
His eyes darken. “No.”
The word lands heavy.
I slide my hand into his. The second his fingers close around mine, my whole body reacts—heat rushing, stomach flipping, skin buzzing like it’s been waiting for him.
He doesn’t yank me in. He leads. Gentle but certain, guiding me onto the dirt dance floor like he’s done this a thousand times.
“I didn’t know you danced,” I manage, because my brain is trying to keep up with my heartbeat.
“I don’t,” he says.
“Then what are we doing?”
“Keeping you safe,” he answers, too smooth.
I laugh, breathless. “You’re using dancing as a security tactic.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… ridiculous.”
Jack’s hand slides to my waist, settling there like it belongs. His other hand holds mine, lifting it just enough. He draws me closer—close enough that my chest nearly brushes his.
My laugh dies in my throat. “Jack,” I whisper again, because it’s becoming my favorite word.
