His eyes stay on me.
“You should come.”
It is so direct that for a second I just stare.
He askedme.
This mountain of a man with his rough voice and quiet eyes and shoulders built for sin just invited me to a dance like we are in some rustic fever dream tailored specifically to my emotional needs.
“Really?” I ask, and instantly hate how breathless I sound.
“Really.” His gaze drops to my mouth for the smallest second. “I can pick you up at seven if you want.”
My heart gives one huge, traitorous thump.
This is ridiculous. I got dumped less than a week ago. I am in a strange town. I do not know this man.
And yet every instinct in me, every soft, foolish, hopeful part, leans toward him like a flower toward sunlight.
Maybe because nothing about Weston feels slippery or performative.
He is not trying to charm me. He is just standing there, huge and quiet and certain, asking.
I think of Darren rolling his eyes every time I wanted him to take me somewhere that required real pants.
I think of the way Weston carried in my firewood without making it seem like a favor.
I think of the way he looks at me, like I am something worth noticing.
“Yes,” I say.
The word comes out soft, but it lands between us with surprising force.
Something in his face eases. Not a full smile, still, but close enough to steal my breath all over again.
“Yeah?”
“Yes.” I clear my throat and try again. “Yes, I’d like that.”
“Good.”
He says it like he already knew what my answer would be.
A shiver dances down my spine.
He heads toward the door, then pauses with his hand on the knob and looks back at me.
“Road gets dark fast up here. Keep your porch light on before I come by.”
“Okay.”
“And lock the door after me.”
I blink.
There is nothing bossy in the words. Nothing sharp. But the low note in his voice sends a strange warm pulse through my belly anyway.
“Okay,” I repeat, quieter this time.
