21. Chapter 21 #2
But it’s pretty and flowy and makes me feel feminine. And most importantly, it’s not overalls.
“Rosie?” I hear Dean call, his voice muffled by the walls between us.
Right. Time to go. I give myself one last once-over in the mirror, take a deep breath, and then walk out the door of my room and through the kitchen into the front entry of the inn.
Dean’s there.
He’s got his back to me. He’s traded his usual jeans for tan pants and a black sweater, the sleeves pushed up his forearms and his beard freshly trimmed.
“Hey,” I say, and he turns around.
He freezes in his spot, his eyes fixed on me, and all of my silly, ridiculous, self-conscious, icky-moth feelings die right there.
“You look beautiful,” he says.
I grab the sides of my skirt and hold them out like I’m presenting the full effect. “So, I clean up okay?”
He takes a step toward me. I can smell his cologne. It’s woodsy and very him.
“Yes. I like the dress. But . . . I kind of miss the overalls.”
I snort out a laugh. “Sure,” I say.
“I’m serious,” he says, his voice low and quiet.
Oh.
Right, so we should definitely skip the dance and go make out somewhere. Maybe the Ridge again?
I open my mouth to tell him about my change of plans, then shut it. No. We can’t do that. It’ll only make his leaving harder.
Although . . . that sounds like a problem for future Rosie. Present Rosie thinks we should kiss. Immediately.
But, no. Bad idea. Very bad idea.
A very good bad idea.
I don’t know if Dean can read the great make-out debate happening on my face, but he turns and offers me his arm as if helping me settle it.
“Shall we?” he asks.
I slip my hand through the crook of his elbow. “Yes,” I say. “Let’s go.”
I grab a jacket from the rack by the door as we leave, even though right now I’m feeling warm enough that I don’t need it.
We walk arm in arm toward the barn, the music growing louder with every step.
“Do you like to go dancing?” I ask Dean as we walk.
“No.” He looks over at me and gives me a half smile.
I laugh. I don’t even know why I asked.
“Do you?” he asks.
“It’s not my favorite kind of entertainment. But I don’t mind it,” I tell him. “I’m not very good at it, though.”
“Somehow I doubt that,” he says.
The music from the band gets louder as we approach the entrance, joining the others who’ve also just arrived.
Inside, string lights are hanging from the rafters, a band plays an upbeat country song at one end of the barn, and tables and chairs line the other. In the middle, couples fill the concrete dance floor, laughing and moving to the music.
The Ednas are both out there with their husbands, smiling and looking sprier than I’d expect from either of them.
I get pulled into three conversations before I make it ten feet.
Pam Vasser tells me I did a great job with the festival and then shows me pictures of her new grandson on her phone.
Juliet and I congratulate each other on surviving the past week and vow to never run a festival again.
Monica Batchelder apologizes for her watery pumpkin pies, and I reassure her they were perfect, while cursing the Ednas in my head.
Dean stands at the edge of the barn with a cup in his hand, and every time I look over, he’s talking to someone new, looking like a man at a work function he can’t leave.
The band starts playing a slower song, and the people who were previously doing a line dance start coupling up, arms wrapped around each other as they sway to the music.
I watch as Dominic taps Bennett on the shoulder and cuts in with Reese, while Emma dances with the new dentist in town, looking way more interested in him than I’ve ever seen her look at anyone. What’s that all about?
I’m so absorbed watching everyone else on the dance floor that I don’t notice Dean has come up beside me until he leans in and asks, “Dance with me?”
“Sure,” I say, though it comes out so breathy, I’m not sure he heard it.
But he must have read my lips, because he takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor.
He places a hand on my lower back and takes my other hand, and within seconds we’re moving together in a smooth, easy sway.
I let out a little gasp. “You liar,” I say, my mouth near his ear. I’ve pasted myself up against him so we’re practically dancing cheek to cheek.
This may be the only time I get to dance with Dean, and I’m going to make the most of it.
“Why are you calling me a liar?” he asks, his breath on my neck making goose bumps erupt on my arms.
“You said you didn’t dance,” I say.
“No, I said I didn’t like to dance,” he says.
“But you’re so good at it,” I say as he guides us around the floor.
“My grandma taught me.”
“Right. Your grandma is starting to sound like a saint.”
“She was pretty great,” he says.
We are quiet while we sway for a bit, and I let myself enjoy being this close to him.
“What are you going to do now that the inn is done and the festival is over?” he asks.
I chuckle. “Sleep for a year.”
“You probably need to.”
“I’ve got things to keep me busy. The inn is booked pretty steadily through the end of the month.”
“Good,” he says.
“And maybe I’ll find a hobby.”
“Join a quilting circle?”
“Yes.” I laugh. “That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“You should be proud of yourself, though,” he says.
“For what?”
“For all you’ve done. The inn. The festival.”
I pull back enough to see his face. “I wouldn’t have gotten any of it done without you.”
He shakes his head, his eyes on mine. “You would have. You’d have gotten no sleep and lived off pot pies, but you would have done it.”
Would I have, though? I’m not so sure.
“You would have,” he says, like he can read my thoughts.
How can he have so much faith in me?
And why, when he says it, do I believe him?
I was there. I saw the mistakes, the shortcuts, all the moments when everything could have fallen apart. And somehow, when I needed something the most, it always seemed to show up.
Including the man holding me right now. My knight in shining armor. My prince.
Except Dean isn’t either of those things. Not really. He’s Dean. Which somehow feels much more dangerous.
Because right now, with the way he’s looking at me, I can feel words bubbling up inside me.
Stay.
Don’t go to Manhattan. Stay here. Stay with me. We could run the inn together and cook dinner in my kitchen and live happily ever after.
That’s what I want: the fairy tale.
But this is real life. And in real life, Dean has a career he’s built for himself. A job waiting for him in Manhattan. A life that takes him from place to place. And I own an inn in a tiny town in Vermont.
“You okay?” Dean asks, his eyes searching mine.
I blink a few times, trying to push back the burning behind my eyes.
“Yes,” I lie.
“Do you want to go home?”
Home.
The word hits me like a punch in the gut.
He means the inn, of course. It’s just something people say when they’re ready to leave somewhere.
Because Dean doesn’t have a home. I know that.
And standing here with his hand still around my waist, his eyes searching my face, I know exactly where I want mine to be.
And I can’t have it.