“I was not.” I tilt my head to agree. “But I have to say, you looked more shocked by these stories than you did when I told you I was Bratva.”
At that, she laughs. Wholeheartedly. Wipes at her tears. Her laugh is so infectious that soon, both of us are wiping at our tears.
I pour her some more champagne, and soon, the band transitions into a new song, something slow and sultry with a deep bass. Gela's eyes light up, and she straightens in her seat.
“I love this song,” she whispers, staring at the band in the distance.
Her face looks like it’s yearning, and the fact that she might want something I’m unable to give her crushes at my soul. On some stupid impulse, I throw back my chair and stand.
She looks up at me in surprise.
I extend my hand. “Dance with me.”
“Here?” She looks confused.
“No, in the parking lot,” I tease. “Yes, here. Of course, here.”
“I'm not much of a dancer.” She laughs as she stands, but the fact that she takes my hand tells me I made the right move.
“Neither am I,” I say as I lead her to the floor. “But we can be terrible together.”
There are a few other couples swaying to the music on the dance floor. When I pull her close, her body fits against mine perfectly, like she was made to be there.
My palm finds the curve of her back, fingers closing around her hand with the other. She sets her free hand on my shoulder, and just like that, we’re in motion.
“See? Not so terrible,” I murmur.
She laughs softly. “Give it time.”
The saxophone wails a lonely, beautiful note, and I spin her out suddenly. She gasps, surprised, but trusts me with her heart, and when I spin her back in, she moves like a ripple, crashing against my chest, her hand on my shoulder.
“I thought you said you didn’t know how to dance!” she says breathlessly, her eyes sparkling.
“When you’ve attended as many weddings as I have, you pick up a couple of moves.”
“Oh.” She shakes her head in mock offence. “This is more than a couple of moves.”
As the music picks up tempo, I spin her faster, enjoying how freely she laughs. Her eyes close as she gives herself over to the rhythm, and I'm struck by how carefree she looks in this moment.
It’s a beautiful feeling. Just us, moving together.
When I dip her low toward the end of the song, her lock with mine. There's a moment, suspended in time, where everything else fades away, and all I see is Gela in my arms, looking up at me with those wide, dark eyes.
“You want to dance another?” I ask, hoping she’ll say yes.
She nods, and we dance through three more songs. We return to our table only when the band decides to take a break.
Her cheeks are still flushed, and there's a lightness in her movements that wasn't there before. I don’t know where the hours pass, but we finish the bottle of champagne and talk about everything under the sun. I tell her more stories from my youth, and she tells me all about what it was like growing up in Minnesota. It's easy, natural, as if we've known each other forever.
When we finally leave, the night is still young.
“I'm starving,” she groans. “Dancing works up an appetite.”
“What are you in the mood for?”
She thinks for a moment, then her eyes light up. “What about Tacos? But not the fancy kind. I want those greasy, messy, delicious street tacos.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Street tacos?”
