“Now who’s a smartass?”
“I’m just being practical.” He shifts, brushing his knee against mine. “You know, since it would be fiscally irresponsible to hire an Uber to get us back to camp.”
I hate it when he’s right.
We order a variety of bar foods to nibble on, and by the time we’re done eating, the club is filling up and the music is pulsing through the overhead speakers.
I push away the remnants of my quesadilla. “It’s a good thing we got here early.”
“Yeah.” Miles takes a pull on his beer. “It would’ve been a real tragedy if we’d missed the dance lessons.”
“Exactly.” I slide off my stool and grab his hand. “Dance with me.”
His eyes cloud over, and disappointment pierces the bubble of my whiskey-induced optimism.
It was silly to ask. He’s made it clear he hates dancing and finds the entire experience to be an exercise in humiliation. I’d just thought that since it’s our last night—
“I’m in.” He hops down from his stool. “Just don’t hold it against me when I step on your toes and embarrass you.”
Gratitude floods my body, and it’s all I can do not to fling myself into his arms.
“I think I can agree to a blanket hold harmless clause in our arrangement.” I pull him onto the dance floor. “But I hope you don’t need it in writing, because I seem to have forgotten my pen.”
He gives me a slow once-over, taking in my denim shorts. “Trust me, sweetheart. I’m not complaining.”
His eyes linger on my bare legs, and a thrill of satisfaction races up my spine.
We join the crowd of dancers, sticking to the edge of the dance floor, where Miles can do the least damage.
The first dance is called the Tush Push, and it’s complicated AF. At least, for Miles, it is. The man really doesn’t have a head for choreography, but I have to give him credit. He tries, scrambling to keep up with the crowd as the house band plays “Boot Scootin’ Boogie.”
Me? I just shake my booty and let the music guide me as I emulate the woman in front of me.
The strange thing is that even though the lines make it easier to zero in on an individual, I feel freer than I’ve ever felt on the dance floor because everyone’s doing the same thing. There’s no worry about whether my moves are weird or awkward or completely out of time with the music.
Sure, there are variations, and some people swing their hips a little more and others dip a little less, but overall, it’s a relaxed, inviting atmosphere. Miles must agree, because when I look over, he’s just sort of shuffling along, no longer bothering with the proper footwork, his gaze fixed on my backside.
I catch his eye, give my ass a little extra shake, and wink at him.
Then I turn into the next step, and before I know it, we’re doing the Cowboy Cha Cha, which, by some miracle of whiskey, Miles seems to have figured out.
He glides along next to me, keeping pace with the music.
And this time? We only bump into each other once.
When the dance finally ends, my heart is racing and I’m breathing hard, a reminder that I need more cardio in my life.
There’s a brief pause before the band starts up a new song. It’s a slow one, and there’s a mass exodus as couples pair off. I turn to exit the dance floor, but Miles holds out a hand, silently inviting me to join him.
My stomach flip-flops, which is ridiculous, since we’re sleeping together, and I tentatively reach for his hand.
Our fingertips brush, and a tingling warmth races up my arm, filling my chest.
Don’t make it into something it’s not.
A dance is just a dance.
He folds me into his arms, and I loop my hands around his shoulders as the singer croons into the microphone. We sway in place, no fancy dance moves or choreographed steps. Just two people enjoying good music and a good time.
