Page 65 of Stuck with the Hero Next Door

She guided us toward a round table near the dance floor, where I immediately spotted the rest of our “coincidental” dinner companions: Mac and his wife, Doc Miller and his wife, and an elderly couple I recognized from church but whose names I couldn’t remember.

The conversation flowed easily over dinner—small-town gossip, gentle teasing about the band’s ambitious song choices, and compliments on the decorations that had everyone looking pointedly at Janet and Kathy, who pretended to be modest about their obvious skills.

But I was acutely aware of Levi beside me throughout the meal. The way he passed me the salt before I asked for it. The quiet way he listened when I told a story about my students’ latest symbiosis interpretation disaster. The brush of his shoulder against mine when he reached for his water glass.

It felt like we were on a date. Our first real, official, public date, even if it had been orchestrated by half the town.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mac called from the stage as the dinner plates were being cleared, “it’s time to work off some of those calories. Hope y’all remember your two-step.”

The band launched into a lively country tune, and couples began making their way to the dance floor. I watched them with envy and fascination.

“I really don’t dance,” I said to Levi, who was watching me watch the dancers with an amused expression.

“I remember you mentioning that.”

“I mean it. I’m the kind of person who trips over her own feet just walking down the street.”

“Noted.”

“Seriously Levi. I have no coordination. That’s why I’m a science teacher.”

“Again, noted,” he smirked.

The song ended, and Mac announced a slow dance. The lights dimmed slightly, and couples drew closer together, swaying gently to the music. It looked easy and natural and entirely beyond my capabilities.

That’s when the crocheted cult struck again.

“Cassie, dear,” said Mrs. Patterson from the antique store, appearing at my elbow with the stealth of a trained operative, “you’re not dancing.”

“I don’t really⁠—”

“Oh, nonsense,” interrupted Dot from the bakery, who had somehow materialized on my other side. “Dancing is just like baking. Do you want the muffin, or are you going to watch it get cold.”

“And,” added Mrs. Patterson, completing what was apparently a coordinated assault, “it’s like owning fine China. What’s the point if it just sits in the cupboard?”

They exchanged meaningful looks that would have been subtle if they hadn’t been accompanied by not-so-subtle glances toward Levi.

“Sometimes,” Mrs. Patterson continued, “the best things happen when you stop overthinking and just...move.”

“Life’s short, honey,” Dot said gently. “And some chances don’t come around twice.”

“Unless you make them,” Mrs. Patterson added with a smile. “Which sometimes means being brave enough to ask. Do you want the man or not, honey?”

They drifted away as mysteriously as they’d appeared, leaving me sitting there with their not-so-cryptic advice echoing in my head and Levi looking like he was trying very hard not to laugh.

“Subtle as a brick through a window, aren’t they?”

“Just a little,” I agreed. “But they’re not wrong.”

He raised an eyebrow. “About what?”

I took a deep breath. “About this.”

Before I could lose my nerve, I stood up and held out my hand to him.

“Would you like to dance? And before you answer, I should warn you that I meant it about not knowing how. There’s a very real possibility I’ll step on your feet.”

His smile was like sunrise—slow, warm, and absolutely transformative. “I’ll risk it,” he said, taking my hand. “The Doc’s here if there’s a casualty.”