“Teach me, then.”
Sierra looks startled. “Oh, I don’t know—”
“You wanna dance. I’ll dance with you.” My eyes sweep over her, slow, deliberate. “I’m a quick study.”
Her breath catches when I slide an arm around her waist and draw her close. Her eyelashes flutter as I drag my hand down her arm and link our fingers. The music starts, and I move—slow, steady, testing.
Her mouth opens in a look of surprise as I take the lead. A simple two-step to start, which she follows easily, moving in perfect tandem with me. I try a spin—her hair fans around her like dark silk. Her skin glows in the bright lights. Her eyes twinkle with surprise and delight as I guide her through another underarm turn.
We fit and move so well together, it feels like a sweet ache thrumming through my veins. It reminds me of when I once dislocated my shoulder during a cave exploration. My arm was a dead weight, numb, and touching it felt like touching a stranger’s. When Ethan popped it back in, the pain was excruciating. But then all my nerve endings came alive, and the arm becamemineagain. She has always made me feel like that—that unbearable, exquisite ache of being alive.
“You liar!” she slaps my chest when the music stops. “What happened to your fear of death by swaying?”
I lean close, mouth near her ear—purely practical, of course. It’s loud in here. My breath stirs the little wisps of hair at her temple. I tuck one behind her ear, my fingers brushing thesoft skin of her perfect, delicate ear. I want to know how it feels against my lips.
“I was a groomsman at Connor and Hannah’s wedding,” I murmur. “They made the bridal party take dance lessons for some viral video. Fortunately, only eighty-three people watched it—half of whom were probably family. But now I can sway. Even spin.” I demonstrate for her, and she laughs.
The next song starts. “Again?” I ask.
She nods. One song bleeds into another, but neither of us suggests we stop or find other partners. Our gazes lock as we dance. I don’t waste the opportunity to stare into her beautiful, dark-brown eyes.
My thumb strokes the side of her waist. There’s a small gap between her top and her skirt, and the temptation to explore that little vulnerable spot—just a touch—is unbearable. I tighten my grip instead.
My gaze settles on her plump lips, glistening in the dim glow. They part slightly. The song fades, but she sways toward me. I sway toward her.
A hand lands on my shoulder. Seth. “You guys ready to go? I’ve got a tour tomorrow morning.”
The spell is broken. Sierra steps back. Disappointment rises within me.
But worse, she actually looks…relieved to be interrupted.
Hurt passes through me as she gives Seth a huge, grateful smile. “That sounds great. Lots to do before Saturday night.” She quirks an eyebrow at me. “You ready too?”
I nod, though my chest feels split open.Closure,I repeat on the drive home.I need to focus on closure.
Twelve
Logan
The day of the Candlelight Tour finally arrives. It’s a mad scramble to the finish. We’re up at the crack of dawn, racing against the clock to check in vendors, finish setup, and make this place match my vision.
Sierra is everywhere—greeting vendors, hauling three chairs at once, popping and locking folding tables, crawling in the dirt to secure cables. She is fearless. Fearless, and so capable. I threw her into the deep end of this crazy event idea, and she hasn’t just stayed afloat; she is swimming laps and rescuing me like my own personal lifeguard. Watching her work fills me with so much pride. It almost eclipses feelings far less noble—an ache for her I can’t seem to reason away.
We’re both working as fast as we can, but we are running out of time. We have less than an hour before the first guests are scheduled to arrive, and I’m still stringing the lights while she tests the microphone. Both of us are coated in dust andsweating profusely despite the mild weather and nice breeze.
“Testing one-two-three” echoes around the pavilion, followed by a “Oh, thank god,” then Sierra races over with another ladder to help me attach the last strings of lights around the pavilion poles.
“Almost done. You’re doing great,” I tell her as she climbs her ladder.
“Race you?”
“If you’re careful,” I tell her. “A visit from OSHA would put a damper on the evening.”
She ratchets up her stapling with enthusiasm. Sweat gleams on her rosy face, and the front of her gray t-shirt clings damply to her breasts. I look away, but every shift of her muscles, every flick of her ponytail catches my eye.
“Ha! Beat you,” she crows as she slaps her last staple into the pole. She blows over the top of her staple gun like an old Western gunslinger.
I smile. “So you did.”
