Page 110 of The Story Between Us

She’d spent her whole life watching other people dance.

She took his hand.

The street dance was nothing like the formal events she’d attended in New York—charity galas where everyone moved in controlled patterns, careful not to bump elbows or spill champagne. This was joyful chaos. Couples spinning, kids jumping, elderly pairs swaying together like they’d been doing it for fifty years.

Nate led her to an open spot and pulled her close.

His right hand found her waist. His left hand held hers, warm and solid. She put her free hand on his shoulder—the flannel soft under her fingers—and tried to remember how to breathe.

“I should warn you,” he said, close to her ear, “I lied. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“We call that fiction.”

He laughed, and they moved together, not quite dancing, not quite swaying, a rhythm in between that felt entirely their own. The fiddle played something sweet and slightly melancholy, and the string lights turned everything golden, and Livvie couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt this…here. This present. This alive.

“You okay?” Nate said.

“Yeah.” She looked up at him. His face was close, and she could see the firelight from nearby torches reflected in his eyes, the slight stubble along his jaw, the way he was looking at her like she was something precious.

“You’re amazing,” he said quietly.

She cocked her head.

“You don’t know it, but it’s true.” His thumb moved against her waist, gentle. “You cry at good writing—real tears, not polite ones. You remember everyone’s coffee order. You sing under your breath when you think no one’s listening, and you’re actually pretty good.”

“I don’t⁠—”

“You do. In the kitchen, when you’re making lunch. Yesterday it was something from Les Mis.”

She felt her face burn. “You weren’t supposed to hear that.”

“Too late.” He smiled. “I’ve been paying attention, Livvie. I see you. Even when you’re trying not to be seen. And I…I, um, I like what I see. Who I know.”

Her throat filled. The song ended. Another one began, slower this time. Neither of them moved to leave the dance floor.

“Is this okay?” he asked quietly.

“Yes.”

So he pulled her close, and she held on. Breathed in the scent of him.

Now. She should tell him now that she wanted to stay.

But the words stayed locked, all the way to the end of the song. Then he took her hand and led her to the bonfire.

It crackled and roared on the beach at the end of town, sparks rising into the dark sky. Log benches circled it, filled with festivalgoers warming themselves, roasting marshmallows, sharing blankets against the growing chill.

Nate led her to a spot slightly apart from the crowd—a log bench with a view of the fire and the lake beyond, where the water reflected the flames in shimmering orange and gold.

They sat down. His thigh pressed against hers, the delicious smell of him—woodsmoke and fallen leaves—finding her, and she sensed she might be sitting next to Aldric, the warrior who’d made it through the forest of Thornwood.

Triumphed.

“Thank you,” she said. “For tonight. For the hat and the fudge and the—” She gestured vaguely at the fire, the festival, all of it. “This.”

“You don’t have to thank me.”

“I know. But I want to.” She tugged on her hat. “This is the best birthday I’ve had in years. Maybe ever.”