He leans down slightly, voice low so only I can hear. “Relax, Stella.”
“I am relaxed,” I lie.
His gaze flicks over my face, then drops to my lips. “No, you’re not.”
I swallow. “This is a lot.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.” He starts moving—slow, controlled. My feet follow instinctively, and I’m shocked to realize he’s good. Not “awkward man who avoids weddings” good. Good-good. Like he knows exactly where to place his weight, exactly how to guide without forcing. Like his body has learned how to lead in a thousand dangerous situations… and now it’s leading me.
My palms go damp. “You’re a liar,” I accuse softly.
Jack’s brow lifts. “About what?”
“You said you don’t dance.”
He looks down at me, expression flat. “This doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts,” I say, because we are swaying under string lights with his hand on my waist and my heart trying to climb out of my throat.
His thumb shifts—small movement against my side, almost a stroke.
I shiver.
Jack’s jaw tightens. “You cold?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper. “Not even a little.”
His gaze catches mine, and something hungry flashes there—so quick I almost think I imagined it.
But then his hand at my waist firms, pulling me closer by an inch.
My breath catches.
We sway, slow circles in the dirt while the band sings about heartbreak and home and all the things that sound sweeter with a fiddle behind them.
I try to be normal.
I try to keep this light.
“I’m warning you,” I say, aiming for playful. “I’m an extremely enthusiastic dancer. I do spins. Jazz hands. Interpretive yeehaw.”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “No spins.”
“Are spins a security risk?”
“Yes.”
“Because you might lose control?”
His eyes darken. “Because I might not stop you.”
My stomach flips so hard I almost miss a step.
Jack catches it immediately, his hand tightening, steadying me like I’m something precious. “You okay?” he asks, voice softer now.
I nod, because if I speak, I might say something that ruins my life.
Likekiss me.
