“So,” I say, because silence is starting to make me aware of every beat of my pulse. “Do you invite all stranded city girls to mountain dances?”
His head turns slightly, enough for me to catch the flicker of amusement in his eyes.
“No.”
“Good,” I blurt.
His grip tightens on the wheel for half a second.
The truck goes even quieter.
Heat climbs into my cheeks. “I mean, good for me. Not good in general. Obviously. You should probably keep being welcoming. For tourism.”
That almost-smile appears again.
“I got what you meant.”
Did he?
The community hall glows warm against the dark mountain evening when we pull in. Music spills through the walls. Trucks and SUVs crowd the lot, silvered with frost.
Inside, it is somehow even better than I imagined.
String lights zigzag across the rafters. Long tables hold crockpots, pies, and enough homemade food to feed a small army. A band is set up in one corner, fiddle and guitar weaving something lively through the room. The wooden floor is already full of dancing couples, laughing kids, and older townspeople watching everything with shameless interest.
Weston takes my coat before shrugging out of his own jacket, hanging both on the long rack by the door like this is the most natural thing in the world. Then his hand finds the small of my back, and he guides me farther inside.
Heads turn.
Not hostile. Curious. Warm. A little nosy.
“Locals pretending they don’t gossip?” I murmur.
Weston glances down at me. “Told you.”
A silver-haired woman near the food table beams at us. “Well, aren’t you a sight?”
I nearly trip over my own boots.
Weston just nods like being publicly inspected is a normal part of his evening.
I lean closer. “Am I being evaluated?”
“Yeah.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No.”
“Why?”
His eyes move over my face, slow and steady. “Because you’re with me.”
It is such a simple answer.
Quiet. Matter-of-fact.
My knees nearly stop working.
