“What do you mean?”

“Don’t get me wrong. I love music, but I lack that thing that makes your body move the way you want it to. One time at a dance in junior high, a chaperone literally pulled me off the dance floor because she thought I was having a seizure, so I don’t do that in public anymore.”

There was a devilish gleam in his eyes. “I was just being polite when I asked. I didn’t really want to dance, but now you’re making me want to.”

I wrongly assumed he was commiserating with me. “You don’t like dancing, either?”

“Oh no, I can dance. I had lessons as a kid and can definitely hold my own. But the picture you’re painting, I can’t lie—it has me intrigued. I feel like I need to witness it.”

“Hard pass.” There was no way. No matter how boyishly handsome he looked at the prospect.

“Is there anything else you’d like to do? Do you want to grab some food?”

I was about to say yes because I was already hungry again, and I was still in my mode of wanting this night to go on. To get to keep this shiny memory that I could tell my grandchildren about someday. If that photographer posted our picture online, I’d even have photographic evidence in case my grandchildren turned out to be little jerks who thought I was lying.

But it was then that I noticed his face had taken on a haggard look. As if tonight had been harder for him than he would probably admit. I realized that I should put aside my desire to keep prolonging things and think about what would be better for him.

“I’m actually a little tired. Can we call it a night?”

There was definite relief in his eyes when he said, “Sure thing. Let’s get you back home before you turn into a pumpkin.” I couldn’t figure out if it was a good or bad thing that Noah seemed to recognize the Cinderella-ness of my situation. Maybe he thought that tonight was our one shot at the ball, only I was telling him that I was ready to dash down the stairs and make a break for my carriage and leave my sole chance behind.

Because his assertion wasn’t too far off. Every moment since I’d met him had taken on this sort of Cinderella filter that was coloring everything around me. Like I was in somebody else’s Instagram story with mood lighting and hearts in my eyes. It wasn’t me, and tomorrow my pink Converse shoes would turn back into . . . well, they would stay pink Converse shoes. But this whole Noah Douglas thing would be over, and my life would be back to normal.

But, as my mother would say, them’s the breaks.