Chapter 211

Chapter 211
I opened my mouth—God help me, I was about to say it—when the porch light suddenly flicked on.
“AHEM!”
We both froze.
Lara’s voice rang out, sing-song and smug as hell: “Don’t mind me, lovebirds. Just grabbing some water. Carry on with your… witchcraft.”
I wanted to die.
Nathaniel groaned, head dropping against my shoulder like he was physically in pain. “I swear to God, I’m going to strangle her.”
I scrambled off his lap, cloak flaring dramatically, face hotter than the Renaissance Festival’s turkey-leg fryer. “This—this never happened,” I stammered, backing away like a lunatic.
He stood slowly, eyes locked on me, smile dangerous. “Oh, it happened, Aya. And next time—” he leaned in, whispering at my ear so low I almost whimpered—“there won’t be any interruptions.”

Then he walked away, smug bastard, leaving me on the swing with my heart in my throat and Lara cackling in the background like the world’s nosiest audience member.

I was doomed. Absolutely doomed.



The next day.

If I thought the Renaissance Festival was chaotic, I wasn’t prepared for the town festival dance night.
By the time the sun dipped, the ranch had emptied into the town square. Strings of twinkling lights crisscrossed overhead, the warm Texas night humming with laughter, music, and the smell of sweet kettle corn and BBQ. Couples twirled in boots on the makeshift wooden dance floor, fiddles and guitars weaving a tune so bright and alive that it tugged at my chest.
I was fine just…watching. Sitting on the edge with a paper plate of fried pickles, minding my own business. But Nathaniel, of course, had other plans.
He swaggered up, looking infuriatingly good in a fitted flannel rolled at the sleeves, jeans that clung way too well, and boots that made him look like he belonged to this place. He had that smug grin—half trouble, half something softer—that made me want to throw my plate at his face and kiss him at the same time.

“Darling,” he drawled, offering me his hand. “Dance with me.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Hard pass. I don’t dance.”
“Correction,” he said smoothly, fingers brushing mine anyway, “you haven’t danced with me.”
I rolled my eyes so hard I swear I saw another dimension. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he leaned closer, his voice dropping low enough to melt my insides, “you’re still gonna say yes.”
Before I could sass back, he pulled me onto the dance floor, spinning me so suddenly I squeaked. People laughed around us, clapping to the rhythm, but then—it was like the world blurred out.
His hand slid to the small of my back, the other holding mine firm and steady. “Relax,” he whispered, guiding me into the two-step like I wasn’t a disaster in sneakers and a sundress. “I got you.”

And damn him—he did.
The music faded into background noise, his eyes locked on mine, playful and serious all at once. My cheeks burned, my chest tight. He twirled me again, laughing when I stumbled, but he caught me before I could fall, pulling me flush against his chest.

“See?” he teased, voice husky against my ear. “Natural.”
“I almost broke my ankle,” I muttered, breathless.
“But you didn’t.” His smile was so close, so warm. “Because I won’t let you fall.”
And just like that—chemistry exploded.
It wasn’t just dancing. It was…intimate, magnetic, like gravity itself had conspired to pin me to him. My hand fisted in his shirt without thinking, my lips parting as his gaze flickered down—slow, deliberate—to my mouth.

“Nathaniel—” I started, but my voice failed me.
“Stop pretending, Aya,” he murmured, barely audible over the music.
Then he kissed me.

Not the quick, smug kind. Not the accidental brush of lips. But real. Slow, searing, devastating. Like the entire festival had vanished, and it was only us under the lights, hearts colliding, the fiddle’s song weaving around us like magic.
I kissed him back before my brain could argue, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. And when the crowd erupted into cheers—apparently people had noticed—we both broke apart, breathless, foreheads touching as if we couldn’t quite let go.
“You’re trouble,” I whispered, chest heaving.
He smirked, thumb brushing my cheek like I was his favorite secret. “Maybe. But I’m your trouble now, witch.”
And just like that, I knew—I was doomed.



Okay. I knew I was doomed the moment his lips touched mine on that dance floor.
Because here I was—sneaking away to the tent that we set up earlier under the oak tree with Nathaniel like some reckless teenager who didn’t care about the gossip spreading like wildfire in the square. Lara was probably already fanning herself dramatically, his mom grinning knowingly, and half the town whispering, “Did you see Nathaniel Lisbon kiss that city girl?”
But I didn’t care. Not when his hand found mine and tugged me into the shadows of the oak trees beyond the festival lights, where the music was still faint, the laughter just a background hum.
“You’re insane,” I whispered, but my voice trembled with something that wasn’t anger.
He stopped, turning to face me, still holding my hand like he refused to let go. The glow of the string lights caught in his eyes, making them darker, deeper, unreadable.

“Maybe,” he said softly, stepping closer, “but I think you’re just as insane for kissing me back.”