8. Dannica
DANNICA
LOCAL WOMAN ENGAGES IN QUESTIONABLE DANCE, MAKES WORSE DECISION SHORTLY AFTER
For a second, the words hang between us. Objectively speaking, being asked to dance at a Harvest Festival isn’t exactly shocking. There are fairy lights overhead, a live band playing, and approximately forty-seven couples already dancing.
No, the weird part is that my stomach immediately attempts a full gymnastics routine.
My gaze drops to his hand. It’s nothing dramatic, just a quick glance down before returning to his face.
The sensible thing would probably be to laugh it off.
Make a joke and pretend my pulse isn’t suddenly doing strange things.
This is exactly the kind of distraction I don’t need right now.
I already have a diner-sized decision hanging over my head and a future I can’t seem to make sense of.
The last thing I should be doing is getting caught up in a masked stranger with good timing and inconveniently nice eyes.
A couple brushes past us, so close I can feel the movement of air along my arm, the woman’s dress grazing my wrist. Mystery Guy’s hand is still there, waiting patiently, and that feels more dangerous than if he’d pushed.
I should laugh or make a joke. Deflect like a normal, well-adjusted human being who isn’t currently trying to make a life-changing decision and therefore has no business getting distracted by a mysterious man in a mask.
Instead, I put my hand in his. Once I’ve made the choice, it’s quick and decisive, because the truth is hesitation was never going to change my answer.
“Do you always ask like that?” I ask.
“Like what?”
The moment he speaks, everything clicks into place.
How could I have missed it earlier? Jeez, I was so busy questioning him about taking my picture, I didn’t put two and two together.
The voice, the rhythm of it. The low warmth in it that somehow manages to sound amused and sincere at the same time.
Oh my god.
Mystery Guy isn’t some mystery guy at all. He’s diner guy. The out-of-towner with the impossible smile, the inconveniently thoughtful questions, and the fifty-dollar tip that still has Mary convinced he’s secretly laundering money.
I stare at him, then narrow my eyes. “You know, most people give a girl their name before asking her to dance.”
The corner of his mouth twitches beneath the mask. “Most people aren’t attending a masked festival.”
“Ah.” I nod solemnly. “Right. Heaven forbid we ruin the mystery.”
“Exactly.”
A laugh escapes me before I can stop it. “You’re very committed to the bit.”
“Maybe I like the mystery.”
“Maybe you’re avoiding the question.”
“Maybe that’s part of the mystery too.”
I shake my head. This is completely ridiculous. The worst part is that instead of irritating me, it only makes me more curious and slightly amused.
“So, what’s wrong with the way I asked?” His eyebrow lifts expectantly.
The corners of my mouth curve despite myself. “It’s like we’re in a period drama.”
A chuckle rushes from his lips and, oh boy, my ovaries just about explode.
“I tend to sound like that when I’m in over my head.”
I blink, then blink again. Did he just... “And are you?”
My heart pounds beneath my ribs. He glances down at our hands for a second, then back at me.
“Feels like it,” he admits.
There it is again. That ridiculous blinking thing I seem to do whenever he says something unexpected.
My heart isn’t helping matters either, thudding hard enough to make me wonder if it’s trying to escape.
Because seriously, what kind of man stands on the side of a dance floor in a jester mask and asks a stranger to dance like it actually matters?
And what kind of man admits he’s in over his head?
This one, apparently.
The first thing I notice is that his hand is warm. The second is that his thumb shifts slightly against the back of my hand, the pressure changing just enough to make the contact feel intentional instead of incidental. Like he means it. Like he didn’t ask me because he got caught taking my picture.
Which is a surprisingly difficult thing to ignore.
I let him pull me in and then, because my self-preservation skills have abandoned me for the evening, I close the remaining distance myself.
My free hand settles on his shoulder as though it’s the most natural thing in the world, even though I still don’t know this man’s name.
The fabric of his shirt is soft beneath my palm, but the muscle underneath definitely isn’t.
He has those broad, solid shoulders that make a person seem dependable for reasons I can’t quite explain.
Not that I’m putting any thought into that. Or the fact that I’m suddenly curious whether the rest of him is as sturdy. Being asked to dance doesn’t give me the right to start randomly groping the man, even if my brain is currently doing an impressive job of arguing otherwise.
Let me tell you something, his scent doesn’t help either.
The faint smell of cedar and something clean envelops me.
Not soap exactly, just clean. It makes me want to lean in and breathe a little deeper, partly because it’s a welcome break from the sweet, sugary haze hanging over the festival, but mostly because it feels weirdly familiar.
Safe. Like a warm hug from an old friend.
Probably a ridiculous thing to think about a man whose face I can’t even see, but that’s a problem for Future Dannica.
Present Dannica is apparently too busy enjoying it to care.
His other hand settles at my waist, carefully, almost hesitantly, not assuming permission but giving me the opportunity to step back and change my mind. I don’t. In fact, before I can overthink what that says about me, I find myself stepping closer instead.
We fall into an easy rhythm. Nothing complicated.
Just a shift of weight, a step, another step.
My body follows without much effort, which surprises me considering I have all the grace of a newborn giraffe.
But he moves like getting it perfect isn’t the point.
Like the dance itself doesn’t matter nearly as much as the person he’s dancing with. Something about that settles me.
Usually, I’m thinking about how I look, or if I’m doing something embarrassing, whether people are watching, or if I’m somehow managing to make a simple situation weird.
But right now, none of that seems particularly important.
His hand stays warm against my waist as the music hums around us, and for once my brain isn’t sprinting three miles ahead of the moment. It’s just... here.
“First festival,” I say after a moment, my voice quieter now, closer than I intended.
“Yeah.”
“And this is your strategy?”
“Accidentally photograph someone and then ask them to dance?”
“Yeah.”
“And what if I said it was?”
I chuckle, the sound slipping out with more ease than it should. “I’d say I’m impressed.”
We fall into a rhythm after that. Not silence, just less talking. It’s a kind of quiet that doesn’t feel like something’s missing. The kind that fills what is.
“So,” I say again, because clearly I’ve committed to talking my way through whatever this is, “do you always go around photographing unsuspecting women and then asking them to dance, or am I just tonight’s special?”
“Exception,” he says.
No teasing, no hesitation. Just one word dropped between us like it means something.
“Wow, I feel so special,” I say, aiming for light and landing somewhere just to the left of it.
“You should.”
Well. That’s not fair. There’s something in his voice when he says it. Something low and quiet and entirely too certain for a man I barely know. My journalistic brain, which has chosen this exact moment to clock back in, perks up immediately.
“Since you took my picture and won’t give me your name, I think you should give me something. What’s your story? Are you on vacation? Having a midlife crisis? Running from the law, maybe?”
I sound as bad as Mary right now.
“None of those are mutually exclusive.”
A full laugh escapes me before I can stop it, and his hand tightens slightly at my waist as if the sound catches him off guard too.
“I knew it,” I say. “There’s a story here.”
“There usually is.”
“That camera of yours looks expensive. So, I’d guess this is less creepy stalker and more a career.” I look pointedly at his camera still slung over his shoulder. Somehow it hasn’t made a nuisance of itself. I guess I’ve been too wrapped up in whatever this is to notice.
When I meet his gaze again, he looks troubled. As if what I just said is both the truth and not a compliment.
“It used to be,” he says.
I decide to see if he’ll ’fess up to being the diner guy.
“Well,” I say lightly, because apparently I’ve made it my life’s mission to poke things I don’t fully understand, “you picked a good night for it. Everyone’s a character tonight.”
“They always are,” he says. “Most people just don’t notice.”
I huff a quiet laugh. “Someone once told me I notice.”
One eyebrow lifts. “That so?”
Damn it. This guy isn’t going to give me anything. I need to be subtler.
“Yup.” I shrug one shoulder. ”I like people-watching.”
“People-watching?”
“Sure. You can learn a lot about someone if you pay attention.”
His gaze settles on me. “Can you?”
“Sometimes.”
His hand moves slightly at my waist as we turn, the movement grounding in a way that’s starting to feel sweetly familiar.
“What kinds of things?” he asks.
That question is so similar to the one diner guy had asked me.
I glance up at him, looking for any sign of recognition, but his expression remains frustratingly unreadable.
I hesitate, because saying it out loud feels bigger than it should. “The things that matter,” I say finally.
His eyes don’t leave mine.
“Like what?” he asks, his voice softer now. “What do you see when you look at someone?”
I swallow. “Things they don’t mean to show. The cracks. The way they look at people when they think no one’s watching. The things they care about. The things they’re trying to hide.”
He’s silent for a long moment.