Page 2

My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass as I take him in. His beard is shorter. His hair is combed back, and the black suit makes every worn flannel shirt I’ve seen him in pale in comparison, even though I like both versions of Holt—seeing him like this makes my heart race faster than usual. A plain black mask covers the upper half of his face, but that suit can’t hide his broad, strong shoulders.

I’ve seen those shoulders beneath his volunteer fire department shirt and wondered what it would be like to lean against them. Tonight, seeing him dressed up, my curiosity turns into something more. I want his hand at my waist. I want him to bend his head so I can whisper into his ear and watch his expression change because of me. I want to know he likes me as much as I like him.

I stand apart from the crowd, wearing a dark green dress I bought three weeks ago and nearly returned yesterday. I can handle an angry relative, a frightened child, and three ringing call lights without losing my patience. But flirting with the man I want is apparently outside my comfort zone.

He looks my way, and our eyes meet across the room. Everything around me stops. Please come over, my foolish heart seems to say. The words are so clear in my head that I nearly say them aloud. If he turns away again, I am going to cross this room myself, even though the thought makes my pulse jump. I have spent enough evenings imagining what I might say to him—tonight I want to say everything I’ve wanted to say out loud to him.

Across the room, a woman wearing a silver mask approaches him and says something. It’s Julie, his twin. I recognize her from town and her daughter from last spring's school fundraiser. He leans in to listen, then gives her a look that makes her grin before his eyes return to me.

He moves toward me, then stops, waiting for a couple to pass. I watch his thumb slide along the outside seam of his pants. It’s a nervous little motion I’m familiar with from the ambulance entrance, where he waits for the crew to finish bringing equipment back outside.

For months, I’ve told myself not to interrupt him at work. I’ve also told myself that crossing the street would be too obvious, that he might already have someone, or that a man who looks away so quickly probably wants to be left alone. But none of those reasons make sense tonight. He takes the last few steps before I can decide how to take mine.

“Dance with me.” It’s not a question—it’s a statement. He offers his hand—eyes locked on mine. His voice is deeper than I expected. I’ve heard it from a distance but never directed at me. Now I’m afraid the sound will haunt my nightly fantasy of him.

“Yes.” I set my glass on the nearest table and take his hand.

His fingers close gently around mine, and warmth runs up my arm. He guides me to the dance floor with more grace than I would expect from such a big man.

I notice the roughness of his palm and the careful pressure of his fingers. Such a small touch, yet I feel it everywhere. Does he feel this too, or is he simply being courteous? I glance at his face, searching for something I have no experience recognizing.

“I should warn you,” he says, settling his hand at my waist, “my lessons involved my sister counting very loudly as she criticized my every move.”

I rest my hand on his shoulder. “Did you listen?”

“Eventually.” His mouth curves, and his smile nearly undoes me. It’s the same smile I’ve sometimes seen from across the street when he’s with his sister or his niece—playful and teasing.

We start slowly. His first step is cautious—his second is more confident. I follow the pressure of his hand and find I don’t need to think much about my feet. But I do need to stop staring at his mouth.

“Am I counting loudly enough?” I tilt my face to look into his eyes instead of at his mouth.

“You haven’t counted.” His thumb shifts against the back of my hand, and I shiver slightly.

“Then you’re doing fine.” I let my fingers settle more comfortably on his shoulder, loving how he feels under my touch.

He breathes out, and I feel his shoulders ease. I want to make things easier for him. I also want to see him a little less composed, which surprises me, but I’m not ready to think about that while his hand rests on my waist. I let my thumb glide once over his shoulder. His eyes drop to my mouth for a moment, and the heat in his gaze almost makes me stumble.

Maybe I can recognize desire after all.

I still haven’t figured out why he’s acting like we don’t know each other. Sure, we’ve never officially been introduced or spoken, but I know him. I know his sister. I know the mountain road he lives on because Julie mentioned her brother’s cabin at the fundraiser. I want him to tell me his name because he chooses to. So I let the song play and act like I don’t know that he’s the man that makes my heart race and my panties dampen at the mere sight of him.

three

Holt

Her dress is green, but that word doesn’t capture how it looks as she moves under the lights. The fabric darkens at her waist and brightens over her hips, making her look like a legendary wood sprite from the stories my grandmother used to tell Julie and me when we were children.

The song ends before I am ready, and I loosen my hold, expecting her to leave, but she keeps her hand in mine as the band starts another song.

“Do you want to keep going?” She glances toward the musicians, then back at me.

“Yes.” The answer comes out so quickly that I feel heat climb under my mask. “If you do.”

She nods as we spend the next two dances in each other’s arms. When the band announces a short break, I take the opportunity to step outside with Lara alone.

“Are you having fun?” She leans against a wooden pillar, her skirt settling around her ankles.

“I am now,” I reply more honestly than I expected.