Before I knew it, I was nodding. Apparently, I had plans tomorrow evening. The rest of the night rolled along, and I was acutely aware of Kincaid’s presence the entire time. I tried to remember the last time I went on a date, and I was pretty sure it had been in college. Which was kind of ironic, considering how much of a bust college had been for me. I’d never been able to figure out what I wanted to do. I’d drifted from major to major before graduating.
Despite that aimlessness, since I’d moved back home to Willow Brook, I felt like I was settling into something more solid. A position with Fireweed Industries was coming together, possibly an events coordinator role I hadn’t expected to want, but actually did. In the meantime, I genuinely liked waitressing. I loved talking to people. I liked the rhythm of it, the motion, the bustle, the conversations. My shifts flew by.
But dating? That hadn’t flown at all, much less ever gotten off the ground. I’d dated a bit in college. Nothing serious and nothing that lasted. I hadn’t dated at all in high school—mostly out of sheer embarrassment about the scandal that had blown up around my dad and the sharp edge of anger about all of it that pricked under my skin.
I’d tried to shove that anger down in college, but it never went away. I’d never been surprised that none of my dating relationships went anywhere. I didn’t trust, at all. I’d never gone on a date with someone like Kincaid. He felt steady, grounded, and even kind. A man who made me feel like I didn’t have to be anyone but myself, and that, somehow, was the most terrifying part.
“Shall we?” he said at one point, as the crowd started to thin out later in the evening.
“Shall we what?” I asked, confused.
He tipped his head slightly, his lips barely quirking at the corners. Just that hint of a smile sent sparks scattering like pinwheels across my skin. The low hum of my pulse revved louder.
“Shall we, you know, leave?” he asked.
“Have you done your duty?” I teased.
He looked around, scanning the room. “I think so. About half my crew left. We’re in the clear.”
We started to make our way out, and I felt his palm rest just above the curve of my lower back. The heat of it felt comforting as he gently coaxed me forward through the room.
The moment we stepped outside, the cool evening air struck my cheeks.
“Thank you,” I said when we paused near the gravel parking lot.
“For what?” he asked.
“For taking me. That was nice.”
This time, his smile stretched slowly from one corner of his mouth to the other—and my belly did a full swoop.
“Well, thank you for coming with me,” he said.
I felt giddy as I smiled back at him. Our footsteps crunched over gravel as we resumed walking. I loved this time of year. It felt like the world was waking up again, coming alive after the deep hush of winter as spring began to take hold.
There were jokes galore about spring and mud season in Alaska and the blink of fall, but every season was distinct here and had its own charms. The days were getting longer, and even though it was fairly late in the evening, there were still remnants of light outside as the night came to gradually claim the sky from the day. The blue was fading into a soft, deep smudgy purple with the moon rising and the last glimmers of the sun shimmering above the mountain ridge in the distance.
In this moment, standing here with Kincaid, I didn’t feel like I was carrying the weight of all my baggage. I just felt like a woman on a date, with a good man.
We stopped beside his truck, and all of my senses felt alive, tingling and attuned to him. An owl called somewhere nearby, its low hoot echoing in the quiet, followed by another answer farther off in the distance. A bird flew overhead, and the soft whoosh of its wings sliced through the night air.
“The woo-woo birds,” I murmured, barely above a whisper.
“The woo-woo birds?” Kincaid asked, amusement glinting in his eyes.
“Yeah,” I said, smiling faintly. “Their wings make that whistling sound. It’s called winnowing. They’re Wilson’s snipes, small, fast birds that fly low. You can’t always see them, but you can hear them. Woo-woo.” I mimicked the sound, soft and airy.
“There’s nothing amazing about how they look,” I added, “but I love the sound.”
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving mine. We’d stopped on the passenger side of his truck, and his hand was curled loosely around the handle. I tilted my head up, abruptly aware of how close we were, how still he was.
He lifted his free hand and gently brushed a strand of hair away from my forehead, his fingers grazing my skin. His feather-light touch along the outer shell of my ear sent a shiver skating down my spine. Goosebumps rose on my arms, and my breath caught.
An impulse struck me, fast and sudden. I leaned forward and pressed my lips into the small dip at the base of his throat. That warm little hollow—exposed beneath the open edge of his shirt—was too tempting. His skin was sun-kissed even now, in spring. But he lived a life outdoors, and it showed. I lingered there for a moment before pulling back. My knees felt unsteady, and my heart was racing.
His eyes—God, his eyes—were molten. “Tori,” he rasped.
“Yeah?” I whispered. My voice was barely there. The world blurred around the edges, my thoughts hazy like fog.
