“Then stop looking at me like you want me to.”
My jaw drops. “You’re impossible.”
“Consistent,” he corrects.
“Annoying.”
“Honest.”
We stare at each other, and the air thickens until someone yells, “Pumpkin emergency!” and he laughs, standing.
“Saved by the gourd,” he says, walking off, leaving me melted and muttering curses under my breath.
By sunset, the marina glows under a canopy of string lights. Music spills from the stage, a blend of fiddles andheartache. The smell of cider drifts through the crowd, mingling with laughter and the occasional shriek of a child who lost their balloon.
I’m handing out raffle tickets when I feel him before I see him.
That pull, that awareness, is magnetic, like my body recognizes him before my brain can issue a warning.
“Dance with me.” He appears beside me.
“I don’t dance.”
“You said that last time.”
“I meant it.”
He smiles. “And I meant it when I said I do.”
The band strikes up a slow song, and before I can find an excuse, his hand finds mine. The contact steals my breath. His thumb slides over my knuckles, gentle but firm.
“Crew,” I whisper.
“Bailey.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
He pulls me close, and the rest of the world blurs.
His hand settles on my waist, warm through the fabric of my dress. My other hand lands on his chest—solid, steady, familiar. We move slowly, our steps matching like muscle memory.
He smells like cedar and wood smoke. My heart beats too loud.
“Still think it’s a bad idea?” he murmurs.
“Yes.”
“Liar.”
I huff a laugh, but it dies when he leans in—so close that I can feel his breath against my temple.
“I’ve been trying not to want this,” he whispers. “It’s not working.”
My throat tightens. “Then stop trying.”
He pulls back just enough to look at me, eyes dark and searching. “You sure?”
