My eyes stay fixedon the crowd swaying to the music—couples laughing, spinning, the beat loud and contagious. My foot taps along instinctively. I wish I were out there with them. Just for a moment, to be part of it all.
I lift my cup, finishing the last sip. The thought of another glass of sugar-laden lemonade turns my stomach, but a tonic water sounds perfect. Leaning toward Irene, I ask, “Mind if I go get a drink?”
“Go right ahead, dear,” she says with a smile, already turning back to her friends. They've gotten louder since we arrived, and I’m almost certain her flask is empty now.
I stand, clutching my purse against my stomach as I weave through the dancing crowd and head toward the drink stand.
The woman behind the table greets me with a warm smile. “What can I get for you?”
“Do you have tonic water?”
“No, miss, regular water.”
“Tea?”
“We don’t–”
“She’ll have a hay water, make it two.”
A deep voice cuts through from behind me, carrying over the noise of the fair as if it were meant only for me. My back straightens before I turn, and there he is—the man whose eyes had found mine across the crowd, the one who already lingers in my thoughts like a secret I should keep.
The woman retrieves a tall glass pitcher from the back of the tent, then pours, the amber liquid glinting as it catches the lantern light, streaming into the waiting cups. I don’t move. My breath snags in my chest. Not only from the suddenness of his voice but from the weight of his nearness, the quiet strength radiating from the man now standing at my side. He slips a money clip from his pocket, the motion smooth. I can’t help but notice the way the muscles in his forearms flex with each subtle movement as he extends his hand toward the vendor.
“Thank you, Leslie,” he says, his voice low and easy, lips tugging into a smile that feels like sunlight after a long winter.
“You’re welcome, Marcel,” she replies warmly, handing him the two cups. “Are you enjoying yourself tonight?”
He glances back at me, something new in his expression. “Evening’s improving,” he says, eyes twinkling as he offers me one of the drinks.
Then he tips his head toward an empty picnic table set a little apart from the crowd, its checkered cloth fluttering in the soft night breeze. “Share a drink with me?”
There’s a gentle pull in his voice, something soft that tugs at my heart. My nerves buzz, half warning, half thrill. I glance toward the tent where Irene sits. She throws her head back in laughter, surrounded by her friends and completely at ease.
“I’m supposed to stay with my chaperone,” I say, my fingers tightening around my purse.
“Just a few minutes?” His voice is warm, earnest, carrying a sincerity that disarms me. “One drink. You’re safe with me, I promise.”
I meet his eyes, and something in them holds me still. They’re kind, touched with the faintest crinkle at the corners, a softness that quiets the warning bells in my mind. His presence doesn’t press or demand. It surrounds me instead with a steadiness that feels safe, a gentleness that feels rare.
My aunt’s voice rises in my mind, always urging caution, always reminding me of what is proper. Yet something strange stirs inside me, whispering that this moment is different, thatheis different.
“Is there anywhere off to the side?” The question slips out, and I’m almost startled to hear my own voice give it shape.
“I know a place.” His smile deepens, genuine. He turns, walking ahead with a confidence that draws me forward, not through command but through trust.
I cast one last look toward the crowd, searching for Irene among the shifting lantern light and swirling music. She hasn’t noticed my absence. My pulse skips and flutters in my chest, restless and eager. Drawing in a breath I can’t seem to steady, I step away from the safety of the crowd and follow him.
He leads me behind the row of vendor tents, where the music fades and the laughter of the crowd becomes distant. It’s quieter here, tucked away from watchful eyes. I lift my glass, bringing it to my nose to catch the scent.
He watches me with a small, amused smile. “It’s just cider. Sweet and not too strong. I think you’ll like it.”
“You’re awfully confident, Cowboy,” I say, arching a brow.
He glances down at his own glass, and I catch a hint of pink rising in his cheeks. It’s subtle, but it softens him in a way that makes me smile. We both take a sip. He was right—the cider is sweet and smooth.
His gaze returns to mine, warm and steady. “Leslie may have spilled my name, but you haven’t shared yours yet.”
“It’s Clara,” I reply, the name feeling almost new on my lips in this quiet corner of the night.
