Page 27 of Never Enough

I feel it before he says anything, the shift in his posture, the way the air around him changes when he's made a decision. He stands and holds out his hand.

“Dance with me, wife.”

It's not a question.

My mouth opens to say something deflecting. To tell him that I'm eating, that I don't dance, or my dress will get grass-stained… but none of those things come out. Because he's standing there in those dark Wranglers and that white button-down with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, and the string lights are catching the angles of his face, and his hand is extended toward me like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And everyone is watching.

“Come on, Firefly,” he says, quieter now. Just for me. “It’s just you and me.”

I put my hand in his.

His fingers close around mine, and then I'm on my feet and he's leading me toward the dance floor.

We reach the edge of the floor and he turns to face me. For a second, we just stand there. The music shifts again—something slower still, something with a steel guitar crying underneath the melody.

He pulls me in. One hand settles at the small of my back. The other keeps hold of mine, our joined hands tucked between us. I have no choice but to put my free hand on his shoulder. And then he’s leading me in a classic Texas two-step, pushing me backwards as our boots scoot across the cornmeal.

I can feel the muscle and heat of him through the cotton, which means my brain immediately starts compiling a list of all the places our bodies are touching and cross-referencing it with that dream I had a few nights ago. helpful, brain, thank you.

“You're tense,” he says.

“I'm fine.”

“I can feel how tight your body is.”

I consciously release the death grip I have on his shoulder and try to relax. It mostly works. My body settles against his by degrees, first my hand softens, then my arm, then the rigid line of my spine gives up the fight. Finally, I let myself lean into him. Just a little. Just enough to feel his heartbeat through his shirt, steady and slow and completely at odds with the chaos inside my own chest.

“There she is,” he murmurs.

“Shut up.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

We dance.

And I hate how good it feels. I hate how perfectly we fit together, his height to mine, the way his hand spans the small of my back like it was made to rest there. I hate how the song seems to exist in its own little pocket of time, separate from the party around us, separate from the lie, separate from everything except the press of his body against mine and the slow steps of our feet.

I hate it because it feels real.

And the real parts are the dangerous parts.

“People are staring,” I say against his collar.

“Let 'em.”

“Easy for you to say. You're not the one the entire town is gonna hate when this is all over.”

“No one is gonna hate you. I can say for a fact that you are impossible to hate.”

“Henry.”

“Gracie.”

“This isn't real.”

He doesn't answer right away. The song carries us through another slow turn, and the string lights blur into streaks of warm gold at the edges of my vision. His thumb moves—one small, deliberate stroke against the fabric at the small of my back.