Chapter 5 Stella
FIVE
STELLA
Valor Springs at night is a whole different animal.
By day, it’s bunting and bake sales and goats with attitude.
By night, it’s string lights and boot scuffs on packed dirt, a stage set up beside the arena, and half the town acting like they’re in a country music video.
The air smells like barbecue smoke, hay, and perfume that came from the same aisle as “Bless Your Heart” scented candles.
There’s a band playing under a canopy—fiddle, steel guitar, a drummer who looks like he was born with rhythm in his bones—and the dance floor is basically just a wide patch of dirt people have decided is romantic.
I’m standing at the edge of it all with a paper cup of lemonade and a body that’s running on pure adrenaline and frosting fumes.
And I can still feel Jack.
Not like a ghost. Like gravity.
I haven’t looked for him on purpose. That’s a lie. I’ve looked for him approximately twelve times in the last hour, and each time my eyes catch on something tall and broad-shouldered my heart tries to do a backflip.
Right now he’s a few yards away, half in shadow near the fence line, talking into a radio with that calm, controlled posture that screams don’t try me. His hair is darker in the night, silver at the temples catching the string lights like a threat. Black t-shirt. Jeans. Boots. He looks lethal.
And he keeps scanning the crowd like he’s counting exits.
Like he’s counting dangers.
Like he’s counting the seconds until someone tries something near me.
Wyatt appears at my shoulder like he teleported. He hands me a small plate with a brownie on it.
“Eat,” he orders.
“Did you just assign me a brownie?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says. “You didn’t eat dinner.”
“I had half a hot dog,” I argue.
Wyatt gives me a look. “And you gave the other half to a kid.”
“Her name is Maisie,” I say. “And she looked like she was going to pass away from hunger. I saved a life.”
Wyatt snorts, eyes scanning the crowd. “You’re gonna save yourself a life by listening to me tonight.”
I sigh dramatically. “What’s the lecture?”
“The lecture is: don’t wander. Don’t go to the bathroom alone. Don’t leave the grounds without—”
“Jack,” I supply, because I know where this is going.
Wyatt’s jaw ticks. “Yes. Sinclair.”
The way he says Sinclair is… loaded. Like Jack once borrowed his truck and returned it with a single scratch and Wyatt has been holding a grudge ever since.
I take a bite of the brownie. It’s a little dry but still good because chocolate is therapy. “He’s… been around.”
“He will be,” Wyatt says. “He’s on you tonight.”
My cheeks heat for reasons that have nothing to do with the Texas air. “Wyatt.”
“What?”
“Don’t say it like I’m… a backpack.”
“You’re my sister,” he says, tone firm. “And somebody’s been messing with you.”
My stomach tightens. There it is again—that truth pressing at the edges of the night like an unwelcome guest.
I keep my voice light. “Maybe it’s just kids being dumb.”
Wyatt’s gaze hardens. “Stel.”
I hate that tone. It turns me back into thirteen-year-old Stella who tried to sneak out to the lake and got caught because Wyatt is basically a bloodhound.
“Okay,” I say softer. “I know.”
Wyatt watches me for a beat, then exhales. “Good. Now… try to have fun, alright?”
“Fun?” I echo, looking at the dance floor. “On command?”
“Fun,” he repeats, then tilts his head toward the band. “Go dance.”
I bark out a laugh. “With who? The goats?”
Wyatt’s eyes flick across the crowd—then land on Jack.
Oh.
No.
Wyatt smiles like a man who has just decided to poke a bear with a stick because it’s entertaining. “Go ask Jack.”
My brownie nearly falls out of my mouth. “Excuse me?”
Wyatt shrugs. “What? He’s already glued to you. Might as well make him useful.”
“Wyatt,” I hiss, mortified. “Absolutely not.”
He leans closer, voice low. “You think I don’t see the way you look at him?”
I choke. “I do not look at him.”
Wyatt lifts a brow.
I point vaguely at my own face. “This is just… my face.”
“Sure,” Wyatt says, like he doesn’t believe me for one second. Then he steps back, smirking. “Dance, Firecracker. It’s Valor Springs Rodeo Days. Live a little.”
“I am living,” I call after him. “I’m breathing! I’m eating a brownie! This is peak living!”
Wyatt disappears into the crowd, probably to go scare a teenage boy away from setting off illegal bottle rockets.
I stare at Jack from across the dirt dance floor.
He’s still on the fence line, shoulders relaxed but eyes alert. He finishes whatever he’s saying into the radio and pockets it, then looks up—like he feels me staring.
Our eyes lock.
My heart does something stupid.
Jack’s gaze holds mine, steady and intense, and I swear the noise around us fades. Like the band is playing only for us. Like the lights were strung just to spotlight the space between our bodies.
I lift my lemonade cup in a tiny salute, because I refuse to be the first one to break eye contact like a coward.
Jack’s mouth twitches—almost a smile.
Then he pushes off the fence line and starts walking toward me.
Oh no.
Oh yes.
He moves through the crowd like it parts for him without even realizing it. People step aside. A couple of girls in denim shorts whisper to each other, glancing at him like he’s a walking daydream. He doesn’t look at them. His attention is a straight line.
Right to me.
By the time he reaches me, my lemonade cup is suddenly very interesting.
“Miss Hart,” he says, voice low.
“Jack,” I answer, then realize I said it like a sigh.
He looks me over with that slow, assessing gaze, like he’s checking for injuries. Or like he’s cataloging what he wants.
I’m not sure which is worse.
“You good?” he asks.
“I’m great,” I say brightly. “I have a brownie. My brother assigned it to me like a mission.”
Jack’s mouth twitches again. “Wyatt’s worried.”
“He’s always worried,” I say, because if I say I’m worried too, I might shake.
Jack’s eyes narrow slightly. “You’ve stayed where the lights are. Good.”
I cross my arms, trying to pretend I’m not warmed all the way through by his approval. “So you’re watching me.”
“Yes.”
“Like a hawk.”
“Like security,” he corrects.
“Like a very tall, very grumpy hawk,” I insist.
He doesn’t deny it.
Instead, he glances toward the dance floor. The band launches into a slower song—less boot-stompy, more sway-and-sigh. Couples drift together like magnets.
Jack looks back at me. “Dance.”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“Dance,” he repeats, like it’s a command.
“I don’t take orders,” I say automatically.
Jack’s gaze drops to my mouth. “You do when they’re for your safety.”
“What about dancing is—”
“Controlled environment,” he says. “Crowd’s watching. Lights are up. You stay in my reach.”
My cheeks heat. “In your reach.”
He holds my gaze, expression unreadable. “Yes.”
My pulse skitters.
I should say no. I should make a joke and vanish behind the lemonade stand.
But my body takes a tiny step toward him like it’s possessed.
Jack extends his hand.
Big. Warm. Steady.
I stare at it like it’s a live wire.
“Jack,” I whisper, suddenly shy. “People will talk.”
“Let them,” he says.
My breath catches. “You don’t care what they think?”
His eyes darken. “No.”
The word lands heavy.
I slide my hand into his. The second his fingers close around mine, my whole body reacts—heat rushing, stomach flipping, skin buzzing like it’s been waiting for him.
He doesn’t yank me in. He leads. Gentle but certain, guiding me onto the dirt dance floor like he’s done this a thousand times.
“I didn’t know you danced,” I manage, because my brain is trying to keep up with my heartbeat.
“I don’t,” he says.
“Then what are we doing?”
“Keeping you safe,” he answers, too smooth.
I laugh, breathless. “You’re using dancing as a security tactic.”
“Yes.”
“That’s… ridiculous.”
Jack’s hand slides to my waist, settling there like it belongs. His other hand holds mine, lifting it just enough. He draws me closer—close enough that my chest nearly brushes his.
My laugh dies in my throat. “Jack,” I whisper again, because it’s becoming my favorite word.
He leans down slightly, voice low so only I can hear. “Relax, Stella.”
“I am relaxed,” I lie.
His gaze flicks over my face, then drops to my lips. “No, you’re not.”
I swallow. “This is a lot.”
“Yeah,” he murmurs. “It is.” He starts moving—slow, controlled.
My feet follow instinctively, and I’m shocked to realize he’s good.
Not “awkward man who avoids weddings” good.
Good-good. Like he knows exactly where to place his weight, exactly how to guide without forcing.
Like his body has learned how to lead in a thousand dangerous situations… and now it’s leading me.
My palms go damp. “You’re a liar,” I accuse softly.
Jack’s brow lifts. “About what?”
“You said you don’t dance.”
He looks down at me, expression flat. “This doesn’t count.”
“It absolutely counts,” I say, because we are swaying under string lights with his hand on my waist and my heart trying to climb out of my throat.
His thumb shifts—small movement against my side, almost a stroke.
I shiver.
Jack’s jaw tightens. “You cold?” he asks.
“No,” I whisper. “Not even a little.”
His gaze catches mine, and something hungry flashes there—so quick I almost think I imagined it.
But then his hand at my waist firms, pulling me closer by an inch.
My breath catches.
We sway, slow circles in the dirt while the band sings about heartbreak and home and all the things that sound sweeter with a fiddle behind them.
I try to be normal.
I try to keep this light.
“I’m warning you,” I say, aiming for playful. “I’m an extremely enthusiastic dancer. I do spins. Jazz hands. Interpretive yeehaw.”
Jack’s mouth twitches. “No spins.”
“Are spins a security risk?”
“Yes.”
“Because you might lose control?”
His eyes darken. “Because I might not stop you.”
My stomach flips so hard I almost miss a step.
Jack catches it immediately, his hand tightening, steadying me like I’m something precious. “You okay?” he asks, voice softer now.
I nod, because if I speak, I might say something that ruins my life.
Like kiss me.
Or take me home.
Or I’ve been thinking about your hands all day.
So instead I whisper, “You’re… surprisingly gentle for a scary man.”
Jack’s gaze holds mine. “I’m not scary.”
I snort. “Jack, you look like you could glare a burglar into repentance.”
He leans in, mouth close to my ear. “Good.”
The word sends a hot ripple down my spine.
I swallow, trying to breathe. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Enjoying what?”
“Me being… all flustered.”
His voice is low, rough. “Maybe.”
I pull back just enough to look up at him. “You’re impossible.”
His eyes flick down to my mouth again. “So are you.” The way he says it—like I’m not a nuisance, but a temptation—makes my knees feel weak.
I try to fill the silence with something safe. “So… do you always use small-town dances as part of your job?” I ask.
Jack’s expression shifts, serious. “No.”
“Then why—”
His jaw works like he’s fighting himself. “Because you’re tense. Because you’re trying to pretend you’re not scared. And because I needed you within reach.”
My heart thumps.
“And,” he adds, quieter, “because you asked if I’d be everywhere.”
I blink. “I did.”
“I am,” he says simply.
Heat blooms in my chest—comforting and dangerous at the same time.
We keep moving, and somehow the world narrows to the space between our bodies. His hand at my waist. My fingers in his. The brush of his jeans against my bare thigh when we step too close.
I look away, trying to calm myself, and spot Wyatt in the distance, watching us with an expression that says I hate this but I also kind of approve.
I roll my eyes at him over Jack’s shoulder.
Wyatt just lifts his cup in a silent toast.
Traitor.
Jack notices my distraction. “What?”
“My brother is being… my brother,” I mutter.
Jack’s mouth twitches. “He trusts me.”
My breath catches at the way he says it—like it matters.
Before I can respond, the band shifts songs again, the tempo picking up slightly, and the crowd begins to move toward the arena for the fireworks finale. People drift off the dance floor in a tide of bodies.
Jack doesn’t let go of my hand.
Not once.
He guides me through the crowd like it’s nothing, his body angling between me and everyone else. Protective without being showy. Possessive without even trying.
We end up near the fence line, with a clear view of the sky.
“Here,” Jack murmurs, positioning me where the lights from the arena fall across us. “Stay by me.”
“As opposed to—where?” I ask, trying to keep my tone light even as my heart pounds.
“As opposed to wandering off to save a toddler or wrestle a goat,” he says.
I gasp in mock offense. “I did not wrestle a goat.”
“You did,” he replies.
“I rescued a sticker.”
Jack’s gaze flicks to mine. “And you almost got crushed by hay.”
My humor falters.
Jack’s hand slides to my lower back, warm and firm. “I’m not letting you out of my reach, Stella.”
My throat tightens. “Okay.” The word comes out softer than I mean, too much like surrender.
The first fireworks explode overhead—white and gold, crackling like a storm made of light. The crowd cheers.
I look up.
Jack’s gaze stays on me.
I feel it like a touch—his attention like heat on my skin.
“What?” I whisper, still staring at the sky because if I look at him too long, I might combust.
“You’re smiling,” he says.
“I like fireworks,” I say.
“I know,” he murmurs. “You like everything.”
I laugh softly. “Not everything.”
“What don’t you like?”
I glance at him then, and my breath catches.
His face is lit by the fireworks—sharp jaw, tired eyes, a scar along his cheek that makes him look even more dangerous. He looks like a man carved out of midnight and promises.
“I don’t like feeling… watched,” I say honestly.
His expression tightens. “You are being watched.”
I swallow. “That’s… not comforting.”
Jack’s hand presses a little firmer at my back, grounding me. “I’m watching too.”
The words send a warm shiver through me.
Another firework blooms—red this time, spilling across the sky like spilled paint. The crowd oohs.
I realize my hand is still in Jack’s. I squeeze without thinking.
Jack squeezes back immediately.
My pulse jumps.
I turn toward him fully now, face tipped up. “Jack…”
His gaze drops to my mouth again, and I can feel the moment teetering—right on the edge of something. He leans down just slightly, his voice so low it feels like a secret meant only for my skin. “After this,” he murmurs, “you’re coming with me.”
My breath catches. “Coming… where?”
His eyes hold mine—storm-dark, certain. “Home,” he whispers. “I’m taking you home.”
The last firework detonates overhead—so loud the ground seems to shake—but all I can hear is the quiet certainty in his voice.
And the way my body answers it like it’s been waiting all day.