Page 37 of The Lonely Road

She raises a sharp gaze at me. “What?”

I shake my head. “Sorry. I’m…I guess I’m just disappointed we won’t be dancing anymore.”

She holds my gaze for a moment. Something in her expression has that extra layer I’ve been aware of all day—not suspicion, but heightened attention.

The band starts playing Shallow, and she steps closer. “I wouldn’t want you to be disappointed.”

I set my hand on her waist, and hers finds my shoulder again.

We move without speaking—slowly. It’s just a shift of weight, a turn, the quiet rhythm of bodies that fall into step without trying.

Again, I marvel at how effortlessly we fit together.

We part with the natural pause of the music, and I’m standing in the cold Colorado night, thinking about one half-step and a moment that didn’t complete itself, doing nothing about it, because I am a professional and this is a job.

“Now, I really have to go.” Her voice is husky.

“Monday evening,” I say, wanting very much to remind her—and myself— that this isn’t over.

She studies me with her dark, precise eyes—gives me the same look she gave me at Buck’s Mercantile when she handed over her phone, assessing and accepting in the same breath.

“You’re only passing through,” she warns. “So we keep it simple.”

“Yes,” I agree.

It’s a lie, and we both know it.

Because none of this is simple. What’s between us is not some casual, disposable thing. I’ve been with a lot of women in a lot of cities, and I’ve never had whatever this is. It’s as if she were designed to react to and with me. To set off something controlled and catastrophic.

I want to ask if she feels it, too.

I don’t.

I’m not the kind of man who does.

I’m the kind who waits—who lets the moment stretch until it snaps.

The music pauses just long enough for both of us to notice its absence. Another song fills the gap almost immediately, something slow and country and old, written for exactly our kind of trouble.

She doesn’t step back.

I admire that about her—the way she holds her ground when most people would retreat into themselves. She stays—lets the pressure build. I match her, and for a few seconds, we’re just two entities in a closed system waiting for the right conditions.

I reach for her. My hand hovers for a moment—and then it finds the side of her face, cool from the air, soft.

Her eyes stay on mine, steady and direct, and the relief that moves through me is so strong it’s almost embarrassing.

Then she leans in. Just a little. The smallest concession.

It’s more than enough.

I kiss her.

Our teeth almost knock because of the urgency on both sides. She tastes faintly of the beer she’s been drinking.

The tip of her tongue duels with mine, surprising me.

My heart slams hard against my ribs.