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With every absurd answer, another piece of armor falls away. Her posture softens. She stops fidgeting with the napkin. She drinks her champagne, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright and focused on me. We strip away the trauma, the past, the darkness, and leave nothing but the current moment.

We drain the bottle. The plates sit empty.

A low, bluesy guitar riff suddenly vibrates through the Big Top speakers. The bass thrums through the soles of my boots. Matt timed the cue perfectly.

I stand up, rounding the small table, and stop a foot away from her chair, maintaining that crucial distance. Then I hold out my open hand.

Sloane looks at my palm. She doesn’t flinch, but her teeth sink into her lower lip.

“I haven’t danced since high school.” She stares at my offered fingers. “I don’t really know how.”

“That makes two of us.” I keep my hand steady, offering the choice without demanding it. “We can learn together. Or we can both leave with incredibly sore toes. Whichever happens first.”

She lifts her head, meeting my gaze. The fear is gone, replaced by anticipation. She slips her hand out of the sweatshirt sleeve and places her palm against mine.

10

SLOANE

My sneakers slide against the sawdust. The bluesy guitar riff wraps around us, filling the massive, empty space under the canvas. Cole steps closer, and his hand settles lightly on my hip. He doesn’t pull or demand. He simply lets the weight of his palm anchor me in place.

I bring my hands up, pressing them flat against his chest.

My mind spins, a chaotic blur of warnings and alarms. I haven’t allowed myself to spend time with anyone like this. If life taught me a brutal, highly efficient lesson, it is that caring for people equals pain. Getting close means giving the universe a target. They choose someone else, or they die. It was bad enough when Wren started worming her way under my skin, dismantling my defenses with a bag of tortilla chips and quiet understanding. But this is entirely different. Cole is dangerously close to making my heart flutter, and that terrifies me more than a blade flying at my face.

He smells like steel and the faint, crisp bite of champagne. Our faces are inches apart. His warm breath washes over my cheek, raising the fine hairs on my neck. Beneath my palms, his heartbeat thuds, strong and steady against my fingers.

He dips his chin. His eyes drop to my mouth.

I tilt my head up. The choice is entirely mine.

Then his lips brush mine. The contact strikes like a lit match dropped in dry brush. The kiss starts slow, a testing of boundaries, tasting of wine and the strawberries we had for dessert. I slide a hand up, my fingers gripping the collar of his shirt. He groans, a low vibration deep in his throat, and slants his mouth over mine. He deepens the pressure, stealing my breath, and I let him, let his tongue twine with mine, let him explore my mouth, conquer it.

It feels too good. Too consuming.

The panic hits a second later. A cold bucket of water dumped over the fire. Attachment is a trap. I have rules. I survive. I don’t give men the power to wreck me.

I tear my mouth away and stumble backward.

“I need some space.” My voice comes out ragged, stripped of its usual cool detachment.

Cole doesn’t reach out. He drops his hand to his side, leaving the physical distance between us intact. Instead of getting upset or pushing for an explanation, that sharp, devastating grin spreads across his face.

“I had a great time, Archer.” He tucks his hands into his pockets, looking utterly unbothered. “Looking forward to our second date.”

I stare at him, derailed by his lack of frustration.

“I had a great time, too.”

The words are a rushed mumble. I turn on my heel and practically run for the tent flap.

The cold night air slaps my flushed cheeks. I push past the canvas and barrel straight into a warm body on the gravel path.

A hand grips my forearm. Dark botanical tattoos twist over the skin, framed by a stack of silver rings.

“Whoa.” Nova steps back, steadying herself. Her wild auburn hair spills over the collar of a distressed leather jacket where a black choker rests tight against her throat.

My eyes immediately dart away from the swollen curve of her pregnant belly. I fixate on a rusted generator behind her, anywhere but the physical reminder of a baby.