Lilian’s POV
Travis was nice.
He was objectively, undeniably nice. He had a smile that showed off straight white teeth, he smelled like dryer sheets and domestic beer, and he held my hand with a grip that was firm but respectful. He spun me around the scuffed dance floor of The Rusty Nail with an easy, practiced grace, laughing when I stumbled over my own feet.
“You’re getting the hang of it,” he shouted over the twangy guitar riff of a country rock anthem. “Just follow my lead. Two steps left, one step back.”
“Two left, one back,” I repeated, watching my boots. “Got it. I think.”
I focused on the steps. I focused on the neon sign reflecting in the window. I focused on the sheer, unadulterated normalcy of the moment. I was twenty-four years old. I was in a bar on a Friday night. I was
