He waits in line and returns a couple of minutes later, carrying two plastic cups of foamy beer.

“That’s all they had,” he says apologetically.

I take a sip. I don’t usually like beer, but there’s something about the sharp, effervescent taste that seems to pair well with the smell of leather and hay. The beer is nice and cold, refreshing in the hot, humid space.

Raylan drinks his down in a matter of seconds, then he crumples the cup and grins at me.

He always attacks his food and drink like that, as if it might disappear if he doesn’t swallow it down fast. As if it’s the most delicious thing he’s ever tasted.

He pulls me out on the dance floor the same way, like there isn’t a moment to lose.

Raylan has so much restless energy, so much active drive.

“I don’t really know how to—” I start, but he’s already pulling me into his arms, one hand on my waist and the other clasping my right palm.

I know some basic ballroom dancing—you pick it up going to fancy parties and events. As far as I can tell, country dancing doesn’t seem to have structured footwork in the same way as a waltz or salsa. Instead, there’s a basic rock-step and then a whole lot of twirling and spinning.

Raylan directs me with his big strong hands, sometimes resting them both on my waist to spin me one way or another, sometimes switching his grip between my hands, or holding both my hands over my head as I twirl.

I’m clumsy at first, stumbling a couple of times. But it’s a whole hell of a lot easier to dance in cowboy boots compared to the stilettos I’d usually wear. And Raylan’s lead is truly flawless—he directs me effortlessly, shifting my momentum one way and another, dipping me down over his blue-jean clad thigh and then pulling me back up again.

He makes it all looks so easy. He moves with a kind of casual grace that belies the fact that he’s really fucking good at this.

I’m not a great dancer. But I am a quick learner. Once he puts me through a particular move once or twice, I can anticipate it the next time around. Soon I’m doing a kind of three-part spin where I duck my head under his hand on the third rotation, and a move where Raylan wraps my arms around my body, walks me around, and then flings me out to the end of his reach like a yo-yo, before pulling me back and wrapping me up in his arms again.

At first I’m focused on learning the moves. But the more I can follow his lead without thought, the more I notice the heat coming off his body, and the tension of his arms when I press up against his chest. I can smell the spicy scent of his aftershave.

I find myself relaxing, melting against him like butter in a hot pan.