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Through the kitchen doorway, I can see her at the table, bent over her notebook, mouthing words to herself. Practicing what she’ll say to Caroline. Trying to make herself sound like a business worth taking a chance on, which is hard for her because she doesn’t see herself clearly.

I see her clearly.

I want to walk in there and tell her that her bakery matters. That the scent of her cinnamon rolls brings people joy and that her kindness to them is her way of delivering positivity to the world.

I don’t say any of this. Not yet.

Instead, I dry the pan and put it back where it goes, and I turn off the kitchen light, and when Ruby looks up and says, “Goodnight, Aiden,” I say, “Goodnight, Ruby,” and I sit on the couch and close my eyes and think about eggs and playlists and the way she said, “They’re good,” like she was talking about more than the food.

Tomorrow we practice dancing. I’ve already watched several tutorials.

I have a feeling the tutorials won’t help.

Chapter Eight

Ruby

Practice Makes Perfect

“One, two, three. One, two, three. One—Aiden, you’re leading with the wrong foot.”

“I’m leading with the correct foot. The waltz begins on the left. I’ve confirmed this across fourteen instructional sources.”

“Oh, okay, well, but you’re stepping like you’re marching. It’s a dance, not a military drill.”

We’re in my living room. The coffee table has been pushed against the wall. A playlist is running through my phone speaker—wedding-appropriate music, the kind of slow, inoffensive songs that get played during first dances and mother-son dances and all the other dances I’m going to have to survive in four days.

Aiden’s hand is on my waist. My hand is on his shoulder. Our other hands are clasped together in the traditional hold, and from a technical standpoint, everything is correct. His posture is straight. His timing is exact. His footwork is flawless in a way that should be impressive but instead makes me feel like I’m dancing with a very handsome metronome.

“You’re stiff,” I say.

He adjusts. His shoulders drop approximately one millimeter.

“Still stiff.”

Another millimeter.

“Aiden, you’re adjusting by increments. That’s not what I mean. I mean you’re dancing like you’re solving an equation. There’s no—” I search for the word. “Give. There’s no give in your body. Real dancing is messy. It’s two people leaning into each other and figuring it out as they go.”

“That sounds inefficient.”

“It’s supposed to be.”

He processes this and adjusts again, and it’s marginally better but still wrong, still precise, still like dancing with someone who downloaded the skill instead of learning it in a high school gym with sweaty palms and a bad DJ.

Which is exactly what happened.

“Okay, stop.” I drop his hand and step back. “New approach.”

He stands there, arms at his sides, waiting. Patient as always.

“Stop thinking about the steps,” I say. “Don’t count. Don’t track your feet. Don’t think about timing or posture or which foot goes where.”

“What should I think about?”

“Nothing. Just—” I step forward. Take his hand. Put it back on my waist, and move in closer than we were before, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, that constant low heat that I’ve gotten so used to I forget it’s not normal. “Just hold me. And move.”

He’s still for a second. Then his hand settles on my lower back—not where I placed it, lower, and the shift sends something warm through my stomach that I’m choosing to ignore—and his other hand takes mine, and he steps, and it’s different.