Chapter 188: Country Dance Floor

Ruby took a big bite of her ribs, closed her eyes, and let out a satisfied sigh. "Hmm... okay, this is actually amazing."

I smirked, taking a bite of my own. "Still not on Patricia’s level, though."

"Oh, definitely not," she giggled. "Patricia’s a culinary wizard. But for a country diner? Ten out of ten."

Instead of sitting across from me, she slid right over to my side of the booth, pressing herself close against my arm. She didn’t even eat much after that—she just rested her chin in her hand, watching me eat with a fond, playful look in her eyes like it was the most entertaining show in town.

Before I could say anything, she picked up a piece of warm cherry pie with her fork, blew on it softly, and held it right out to my mouth.

"Open up, farmer boy," she cooed.

I shook my head with a chuckle but ate it off her fork anyway.

Mrs. Gable walked over to refresh our water glasses, catching the whole scene with a warm, maternal smile. "My goodness," the old woman beamed, wiping her hands on her apron. "You two make such a lovely couple!"

Ruby didn’t even correct her. She just swayed side-to-side against my shoulder, giving Mrs. Gable a sweet, dazzling smile. "Aww, thank you!"

Mrs. Gable leaned in slightly, curious. "So, what brings a handsome pair like you all the way out to our little town anyway?"

"We just needed a real time-out from the city," I replied smoothly, taking a sip of water. "Just wanted somewhere quiet to catch our breath."

"Well, you picked the right spot," Mrs. Gable smiled, patting the table before heading back toward the kitchen.

Ruby leaned her head against my shoulder, her fingers lightly tracing pattern lines on my sleeve as we watched the diner staff start lighting up the little stage at the back.

As the afternoon faded into evening, the bright diner lights were dimmed, replaced by the warm, amber glow of vintage lamps and the soft hum of the jukebox. The diner grew cozy and crowded with locals coming in for a late dinner.

After a couple of hours, four young local girls walked through the front doors, carrying acoustic guitars and a tambourine. They had an effortless, country-chic energy about them.

Stepping up onto the small wooden podium, the lead girl adjusted the microphone, flashed a bright smile at the crowd, and gave the diner a quick, hyped-up intro.

"Alright, everybody!" she called out, tapping the mic. "Hope you’re ready for a real country night!"

The crowd cheered, and instantly, the atmosphere in the diner turned lively. They struck up a fast, infectious country track—a blend of bright acoustic strums, rhythmic handclaps, and sweet four-part harmonies that filled every corner of the room.

It didn’t take long for the energy to catch fire. A few farmers and locals pushed the center tables and chairs back toward the walls, clearing the middle of the floor to make room for dancing.

Ruby’s eyes were sparkling, her head bobbing to the rhythm as she sat pressed against my side, watching the impromptu country dance floor come to life right in front of us.

Couples and old-timers hit the floor, twirling and boot-scooting to the upbeat fiddles and heavy bassline. The entire place felt alive, vibrating with raw, unpolished energy.

Ruby leaned in close, her eyes shining in the dim neon lights as she tapped her feet along with the rhythm. "Look at them," she whispered into my ear, her voice full of genuine wonder. "No auto-tune, no backing tracks, no huge production... just pure fun. I haven’t seen people dance like this in forever."

Before I could reply, the lead singer on stage pointed a hand toward the open floor. "Come on, folks! Don’t just sit there—get up and move!"

Ruby turned her head to look at me, a mischievous, daring glint instantly taking over her face. She grabbed my hand under the table, squeezing tight.

"Ethan," she giggled, her voice playful and dangerous. "You better not tell me a big shot like you doesn’t know how to country dance."

I wasn’t used to this kind of music at all, but there was no way in hell I was going to admit that out loud.

Instead of saying a word, I just reached across the table, took her hand, and pulled her straight out onto the middle of the floor.

It took about five seconds for both of us to realize we had absolutely no idea what we were doing. Ruby tried to pull off some stylish pop-star spin, but her foot caught on the edge of my work boots, sending her stumbling right into my chest. I tried to lead a basic two-step, completely off-beat, nearly stepping on her toes twice while trying to keep us from crashing into an elderly couple twirling flawlessly beside us.

"Ethan!" she laughed, her head throwing back as she clung to my shoulders for balance. "You’re terrible at this!"

"Hey, I don’t see you winning any country awards either!" I shouted over the band’s fast fiddle solo, spinning her around haphazardly.

She ended up spinning the wrong way, laughing so hard she could barely stay upright, her sunflower dress fanning out as she leaned all her weight back into my arm. We were clumsy, completely uncoordinated, and fumbling every single turn—and that was the best part. No choreography, no perfection, just the two of us laughing like idiots in the middle of a packed country diner.

Right in the middle of the lively track, the band hit a dramatic bridge. One of the backup girls—not the lead—suddenly broke out of her harmony line and threw her head back, pushing her voice into a blazing, ultra-high belt.

It was totally unscripted and completely off-key for country, but it was loud and flashy. The crowd of rowdy locals instantly went wild, whistling and stomping their boots on the wooden floor in high-energy cheer.

Ruby and I slowed down, stopping our uncoordinated dance as the energy on stage shifted.

The rest of the girls looked completely thrown off. The lead singer’s smile instantly froze, her eyes flashing with sharp annoyance. Without missing a beat, she reached over, yanked the mic stand toward herself, and practically sang right over the girl to take back control of the track. The subtle tension on that tiny stage was thick enough to cut with a knife.

While the rest of the diner folks kept line-dancing and cheering, blissfully unaware of the drama, Ruby and I stepped off the floor.

We leaned against the edge of our booth, watching the band finish out the song. Ruby crossed her arms, her pop-star instincts instantly kicking in as she nudged my side with her elbow.

"Oof," she murmured under her breath, a knowing smirk playing on her lips. "Classic ego clash. Someone’s definitely getting fired in the green room tonight."