Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The studio was quiet again, the kind of quiet Lily loved best—when her students had gone home tired and smiling, and it was just her at the barre, finally free to move for no one but herself.
She flexed her toes in the soft silk of her ballet shoes, stretched her leg along the barre, and folded forward until she draped nose to knee, enjoying the pull along her hamstring and calves. Each breath she took lengthening and loosening her body as it softened.
The wall of mirrors reflected the clean lines she’d practiced until they were second nature—the deep arch of her back, the point of her toes, the sweep of her arm—rather than the restless flutter she’d been carrying inside all week.
Since Saturday, when Rush had walked her back to the studio after lunch, she’d only caught him in glimpses—his sheriff’s truck cruising down Main Street, parked outside the hardware store, idling at the light in front of Maple and Main.
She’d forced her mind to focus on her classes and the pageant rehearsal, well aware of the dangers of daydreaming about Sheriff Callahan.
He was wrestling with things he didn’t—or couldn’t—share.
But when she closed her eyes at night, or now, alone in her studio, it wasn’t long before the memory of his mouth on hers distracted her. Her body flushed scarlet hot just thinking about it.
Before he’d walked back to his office on Saturday, he’d keyed his number into her phone.
Rush Callahan, as Lily suspected, wasn’t one to chat over text.
For her part, she’d sent him only one message, a picture of her midweek pick-me-up latte from the diner.
Someone had drawn what looked suspiciously like a broken heart in the foam on top.
Lily
Is Monica trying to send me a message?
His reply had been immediate, and she’d grinned at the screen like a schoolgirl with a crush for an embarrassingly long time when it came through.
Rush
Monica who?
Was that how dating worked now? She was so long out of practice; she wasn’t sure if she was even doing it right—if that was what they were even doing.
Were insanely mind-blowing sex and clipped text messages how dating worked?
If so, it was definitely more fun than any of the excruciating blind dates she’d suffered through.
She wasn’t even sure she’d ever really dated Tucker. They had been too young for that.
The contradiction gnawed at her. With Rush, intimacy had come almost frighteningly easily.
At the cabin, they’d both been pushed to the edge, and in that pressure cooker, pretenses had burned away.
Yet when it came to sharing anything but the heat of their bodies, Rush pulled the walls right back up.
Evie was no help. When they talked, she just warned Lily not to get hurt and to set clear boundaries.
That was the problem. Evie didn’t have the faintest idea how messy and exhilarating it felt to push on those boundaries until she wasn’t certain what “too much” or “not enough” looked like anymore.
After everyone left that night, Lily had slipped into her smaller private studio to dance and burn off some of the anticipation and confusion.
Dancing had always calmed her, a way to strengthen her lungs and body and still her mind, but somewhere between opening the studio, teaching classes, and planning a wedding, she’d lost the part where she danced for herself.
In the weeks since she’d bolted from the church, she’d been gathering those pieces back, one by one.
Tonight, she was here again, breathing and reclaiming.
The faint scent of lavender drifted from the dried bundles she’d tucked around the studio, filling her with calm as she sank deeper into the stretch. Inhale. Exhale.
I am a still lake, not a stormy sea.
Movement at the doorway caught her eye.
Her head snapped up. Rush leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, watching her. Snow dusted the brim of his Stetson and the shoulders of his sheepskin coat. A to-go cup steamed in his hand, mixing cinnamon with the scent of lavender.
Something in the set of his shoulders looked heavy.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, straightening from the barre.
“Nothing,” he said, not moving from the doorway.
His weight rested easily against the frame, just watching her with those quiet, steady eyes hidden under the brim of his Stetson.
She wished she could see the color. His face may not have given away any hints of emotion, but his eyes told another story.
Were they storm-dark with passion, like the ominous thunderclouds that rolled through Northfield in summer, or that pale, steel gray she’d seen before, cold and remote as a winter sky?
He shifted the cup, and the light caught on his knuckles—split and bruised, fresh marks layered over old.
The punching bag again. She wanted to ask—would have asked if it was anyone else, but that’s not what he wanted from her.
Rush didn’t want her poking at his bruises, not the ones on his hands and definitely not the ones under his skin, the bruises no one could see.
And that’s not what you want, either, a voice inside mocked her.
“Keep going,” he murmured. “I want to see you.”
A delicate shiver coursed through her. The thin black leotard clung to her curves, the black tights leaving her hips bare without the buffer of a skirt, and she’d never been more aware of her body.
She was used to being watched for form and rhythm, but under Rush’s gaze, every nerve sharpened, tuned into the roiling energy he controlled so well.
The playlist shifted, the opening notes of a sultry track filling the studio—one she reserved for nights when she danced only for herself. Lily closed her eyes, surrendering to the music, letting her body move. She told herself it was muscle memory, but the truth was, she was dancing for him.
Her body found the rhythm easily. The familiar graceful glide of arms and legs, arching and bending her spine in the mirror’s reflection, didn’t feel like practice anymore. Every movement hummed with the raw, electric awareness of the man watching her bare herself in a way she’d never done before.
Her pulse fluttered wildly. Rush wasn’t a student or a safe audience. This was the man who’d stripped her down past skin and bones, to the part of her she was still learning to claim. And yet she continued to dance, the music pulling her into a place where she felt most comfortable. Brave.
Even for Tucker, she’d never exposed so much of herself.
Her chest was heaving now, not from the exertion but from the sharp, aching awareness of him. The music throbbed low and steady, pulling her toward him on a current she didn’t bother to fight.
On the last notes, she spun slowly and stopped a foot away, facing him fully. Rush hadn’t moved, but the energy crackled across the space between them, alive and dangerous.
“I’ve never done that before either,” she admitted, her voice slightly unsteady.
His eyes flickered over her, lingering on her breasts and hips, before finally meeting hers.
Storm-gray. She had her answer.
For a long moment, he said nothing. Then his hand rose, the rough pads of his fingers skimming up along her jaw, featherlight, to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear.
Just two fingers. That was all it took for her body to go loose and warm and wet with need.
She leaned into him, letting herself sink into the pleasure of being touched.
“You do this every day,” he murmured, his thumb brushing her cheekbone.
“Not like that,” she whispered. “Not for anyone else.”
The words felt daring and foreign coming from her, and she wondered if she’d said too much, revealed too much for what they were. The truth was, she’d been collecting firsts with him since the moment she’d hopped into his truck, and she wanted as many as she could get before he left.
Emotions were messy and real, and she was done hiding hers.
“Good,” he said. His hand slid lower, paused at the column of her throat, and stopped just above the rapid beat of her pulse.
She swallowed hard, pushing back against his hold slightly. “I didn’t know you were coming.”
His mouth curved wryly. “I didn’t either.”
“So why are you here?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he tugged her against him, one broad hand skimming the bare skin of her back, the other still holding the to-go cup.
His grip shifted lower, cupping her bottom in that proprietary way that drove her wild, fitting her into the hard lines of his body.
Her own much softer form gave no resistance as she rested against him.
“What is it about you, Lily Hart,” he murmured, studying her face, “that I can’t get enough of?”
Elation soared through her, which she quickly tamped down.
For all her inexperience, she wasn’t na?ve.
Rush had made it clear he wanted her, yes, but just as clear that was where he drew the line.
She didn’t let the thought sully the night ahead.
He needed her physically, and she needed him too. It was more than enough.
She rose on tiptoe to press a soft kiss to the side of his mouth, smiling when his mustache tickled her. “I have some ideas,” she said. Her eyes dropped to the cup with a Maple and Main stamp on the side. “What’s this?”
“For you.” He held it out to her. “Maple cinnamon latte.”
Steam curled up, sweet and spiced, and she inhaled appreciatively, letting it steady her racing pulse. “Mmm. You remembered. Thank you.”
Of course, he had. She shouldn’t be surprised—Rush noticed everything.
He was the kind of man who paid attention to the details no one else did.
It was what made him excel as the sheriff…
and devastate her in bed, reading the tiny sighs and gasps she made when he found the most sensitive places on her body.
Lucky, lucky her.
The radio at his shoulder crackled with Ben’s voice. Rush’s hand disappeared under his coat to turn it down without looking away from her.
“Do you have plans tonight?”
She let a slow grin spread across her face. “Actually, yes. I have a hot date.”
The effect was instant. Rush stiffened, pulling away. “You do?”
“Oh yes,” she breathed, raising herself on tiptoe to brush her lips against the corners of his firm mouth. It still shocked her that she could do that. “Big plans. Huge.”
Finally, the tiny lines at the corners of his eyes crinkled, softening the hard line of his jaw when he caught her teasing.
His gaze dropped to her mouth before snapping back up, and her body thrummed in response.
Her nipples tightened painfully under the thin Lycra, puckering for his mouth to abuse and then soothe.
She pressed them delicately to his chest, feeling him stiffen in response.
She kept her free hand low and to her side, aware of the heavy weight of his duty belt—gun, cuffs, and any number of other mysterious things—and pressed her hips against his, rubbing back and forth delicately.
The tips of her breasts pressed flush against the hard wall of his chest, and her achy, damp mound molded to the stiff length in his uniform trousers.
Her eyes fluttered closed, and she lifted her mouth for a kiss.
Rush gripped her hips, pulling her flush against him, and dipped his head to kiss her.
The kiss was deliciously rough and hungry.
He parted her lips and flicked his tongue against hers, tasting her deeply.
Shyly, she met his tongue with hers, caught the hint of cinnamon and maple, maybe from his own latte, and grew bolder when he groaned.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said roughly against her neck, his hot breath coming unevenly while he nuzzled her there.
“Okay,” she gasped, almost dizzy with anticipation. “I’ll get my stuff.”
When she reappeared, she’d pulled on a long rose-colored wrap dress over her leotard and tights.
Knit leg warmers and boots, along with her long camel cashmere coat—a gift from Amber from her secondhand boutique—belted at her waist, would keep her warm enough for where they were going.
In front of the mirror, she tugged the pins from her bun and let her hair tumble in loose curls over her shoulders.
A quick swipe of lip gloss for shine finished her look.
Rush’s unblinking, hungry expression as he watched her let her know he liked what he saw.
“I’m ready. Oh, wait. We need this.” She turned back around, balancing her latte in one hand while she picked up a neatly taped cardboard box near the front door. Rush took it from her.
He hefted the slight weight. “What’s this?”
“It’s for your tree,” she said, distracted as she bent down to dig one-handed through her big purse for her keys.
She never remembered where they were, and truthfully, she rarely locked the door.
Northfield was incredibly safe, and her studio was across from the sheriff’s station. She shrugged and gave up. “Let’s go.”
Rush put his hands on his hips. “Lily. Lock your damn door.”
She glanced up at him, startled. “It’s Northfield. Nothing happens here.”
“Doesn’t matter.” He was back in his bossy sheriff mode again. “You lock up. Every time. You hear me?”
“Yes, Sheriff,” she muttered, half exasperated, half turned on. It was annoying how much Rush Callahan’s bossy tone really did it for her.
“I’m not kidding,” he warned, narrowing his eyes. Only when she turned the lock did his shoulders ease. “And I don’t have a Christmas tree.”
“You do now.” She tossed the keys back into her purse and linked her arm with his. It was a perfect night for what she had planned. Cold but not unbearable, with big, fat flakes of snow swirling. Happiness bubbled in her, and she tugged him down the stairs.
“Come on,” she said. “We’re going to the tree lot.”
“I don’t need a tree.”
“Spoken like the Grinch himself.”
His eyes narrowed in warning, but she only grinned and stepped closer, tilting her face up to him in the glow of the streetlamp.
Up and down the street, shop windows twinkled light and garlands.
The sugary-sweet scent of kettle corn from the vendor set up in the Christmas tree lot drifted through the cold night air.
“It’s not about what you need,” she said softly. “It’s about letting yourself enjoy something.” Her gaze held his. “Like me.”
Rush stared at her a beat too long. For one long, charged moment, she thought he might refuse. Then he exhaled, the frosty puff of his breath curling between them, and let her tug him toward the lot ahead.
“Fine,” he said gruffly. “But I’m not stringing popcorn garland.”