Chapter 4 Jakob
four
Jakob
The festival is already in full swing when I arrive on Main Street.
Vernon Cooper and his crew have transformed the normally quiet road into a celebration with string lights hanging between storefronts, food vendors set up along the sidewalks, and a small stage where local musicians take turns entertaining the crowd.
I spot several familiar faces immediately: Thorne and Dahlia Harrington sampling something at the barbecue tent, Declan and Tierney Rivers swaying together near the stage.
Silver Ridge festivals are family affairs, multi-generational gatherings where everyone from teenagers to grandparents mingles freely.
But tonight, I'm scanning the crowd for one specific face.
I find her near the craft booths, examining a display of locally made jewelry.
She's changed from her hiking clothes into a sundress the color of summer sky, her dark hair falling in soft waves around her shoulders.
Simple, elegant, and completely out of place among the practical outdoor wear favored by most festival-goers.
She looks beautiful.
I make my way through the crowd, stopping to exchange greetings with neighbors but keeping Lottie in my peripheral vision.
"Finding anything interesting?" I ask, approaching from her left side.
She startles slightly, then relaxes when she recognizes me. "Just admiring the craftsmanship. This pottery is incredible—the glazes alone must take weeks to perfect."
I'm surprised by her genuine appreciation. "That's Julia McArthur's work," I tell her.
"The blue-green one is stunning," Lottie says, pointing to a vase with a glaze that seems to capture the color of deep forest lakes. "The depth of color is remarkable."
"Julia would love to hear that. She's always worried tourists won't appreciate the subtlety of her work."
Lottie glances at me with a slight frown. "You keep calling me a tourist."
"Aren't you?"
"I... yes, I suppose I am." But something in her expression suggests the label bothers her. "It's just—I may be visiting, but I'm not here to collect souvenirs and take selfies. I'm genuinely interested in understanding this place."
"Point taken," I say. "Would you prefer 'guest'?"
Her smile is like the sunrise. "Better."
The band strikes up a lively country tune, and couples begin gravitating toward the makeshift dance floor in front of the stage. I watch Lottie's eyes follow the dancers, her expression wistful.
"You said you don't dance," I observe.
"I said I don't really dance," she corrects. "I took ballroom lessons in college, but this..." She gestures toward the easy, informal dancing happening around us. "This looks like something people are born knowing how to do."
"It's not complicated," I assure her, extending my hand with a confidence I don't entirely feel. "Basic two-step. I can teach you."
She hesitates, looking from my hand to the dance floor and back again. "I'll probably step on your feet."
"I've survived worse."
Her laugh is warm as she places her hand in mine, sending electricity up my arm at the contact. Her palm is smooth against my calloused fingers.
I lead her onto the dance floor, acutely aware of every point where our bodies connect, her hand in mine, my other hand resting lightly on her waist, the way she follows my lead with surprising grace despite her professed inexperience.
"See?" I murmur as we find the rhythm together. "Not so different from ballroom dancing, just more relaxed."
"Mmm," she agrees, but I can tell she's concentrating hard on her footwork. Her brow is slightly furrowed in the same focused expression she'd worn while examining the pottery.
Gradually, she begins to relax, letting me guide her through the simple steps. When she finally looks up from our feet to meet my eyes, the connection between us is immediate and overwhelming. Whatever this is—attraction, chemistry, it's mutual and impossible to ignore.
The song ends, but neither of us steps away. If anything, we move closer, her body fitting against mine with a rightness that should be alarming.
"That wasn't so bad," she says, slightly breathless.
"You're a natural," I reply, though my voice comes out rougher than intended.
The band transitions into a slower song, and without conscious decision, we move together again. This time there's no pretense of teaching dance steps. This is simply two people drawn together by something neither of us fully understands.
Her head comes to rest against my shoulder, and I feel the last of her tension melt away. We sway together in an easy rhythm, my hand spanning the small of her back, hers resting on my chest where she must feel the rapid beating of my heart.
"This is nice," she murmurs against my collarbone, her breath warm through my shirt.
Nice is a completely inadequate word for what I'm feeling. Holding Lottie in my arms, breathing in her scent, feeling the soft press of her body against mine. It’s like finding a place I didn't know I'd been searching for.
"Lottie," I start, not sure what I want to say but needing to acknowledge what's happening between us.
She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, and I see my own confusion and attraction reflected in her dark gaze. We're strangers, separated by geography and lifestyle and a dozen practical considerations. This should be nothing more than a pleasant evening's diversion.
But it doesn't feel like nothing.
"I know," she says softly, as if reading my thoughts. "This is crazy."
"Completely insane," I agree, not loosening my hold on her.
The song ends, and reality intrudes as other couples brush past us, the moment broken by laughter and conversation. Lottie steps back, smoothing her dress with hands that aren't quite steady.
"I should probably get some food," she says, not quite meeting my eyes. "I haven't eaten since breakfast."
"The barbecue really is excellent," I manage, trying to match her casual tone despite the way my body protests her withdrawal.
We make our way to the food vendors, the easy intimacy of dancing replaced by careful politeness that makes my chest ache. As we wait in line, I catch her stealing glances at me, and I know she's feeling the same confusion I am.
This is moving too fast, defying every rational thought in my head. But as we sit together at a picnic table, sharing plates of barbecue and talking about everything and nothing, I can't bring myself to care about rationality.
All I care about is the way she laughs at my stories about small-town life, the way her eyes light up when she talks about her work, the way she keeps unconsciously leaning closer to me as the evening progresses.
By the time we're walking back to the lodge, the festival winding down behind us, I know with absolute certainty that Lottie Smith is going to turn my world upside down.
The question is whether I'm brave enough to let her.