This was better than the neck stroking.
Definitely.
On the dance floor, Dair pulled me into his arms.
Close.
My hand in his, he laid them against his chest and started us moving.
I’d danced with a number of men that night. My dad (twice). Jamie. Duncan. Tom. Hale. Judge. Sully. Matt. Gage. Rix.
We did not dance like this.
I tipped my head back and whispered, “Dair.”
“Gorgeous in that dress, lassie,” he whispered back.
I’d gone dark green. One shoulder. Some gathering and a very short sleeve on that shoulder. An open slit that didn’t go too high and had two tailored pleats to make it more interesting. A same-colored waistband that made my waist look tiny.
Simple. Sophisticated. Timeless.
I’d been a size four back in the day. Something else my mother beat into me with emotional manipulation and lowkey verbal abuse.
After Chad, I’d stopped making being ultra-thin my top priority in life and now I was a size ten.
This felt better on me (and I could have a piece of cake more than once a year).
But until that moment, I wasn’t sure I wore it well.
“Thanks,” I replied.
“Always had class,” he said. “Dripping in it. Not like your mum. Snooty and obvious. Always just you.”
Oh my God.
I’d never been “just me.”
Hell, I’d never been classy (until, I hoped, recently). I’d always been more brash, and acted like my mother, wanting to be the center of attention because I never got any, not even from Dad who’d checked out of the Mum nightmare just like Alex had done. I definitely didn’t get any from Mum, or not any that was good.
But Dair said that with total sincerity.
That was how he saw me.
And that made me feel…
A lot.
“Dair—”
I didn’t get another word out.
His head dipped close, veered to my right, and he said in my ear, causing a delicious shiver, “Just dance.”
Okay, I could do that.
I could just dance.
He held me close, cheek to cheek, as we danced to the song.
