“Then let them wait twenty.”
His eyes soften, but there’s a stubborn glint there, too. “Come on,” he says, holding out his hand. “Duty calls.”
“This is not duty.”
“It is if it sells the story.”
The worst part is that he’s right. The second worst part is that I want to say yes.
“Don’t step on my boots,” I mutter, putting my hand in his.
He leads me onto the floor. Around us, couples sway—a mix of pressed-against-each-other and polite-hand-on-shoulder.
Nash pulls me in slow. Not too close. Close enough. One hand finds my waist, warm and firm through my shirt. The other holds my hand at chest level, fingers laced. He smells like soap and sweat and the faintest hint of smoke from the grill back at the ranch.
My body remembers this—this shape, this height, this way of fitting together. Even though we’ve never actually done this before.
We were supposed to.
Once.
At a school dance where things did not go according to plan.
My stomach flutters with the ghost of that night, but I shove it down. That story has teeth. I’m not ready to let it bite.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, leaning in enough that his breath grazes my ear.
“I’m at the Eager Beaver slow dancing with my fake boyfriend in front of half the town. Why on earth would I be tense?”
His chest moves against mine in a low chuckle I feel more than hear. “Relax,” he says. “It’s just a song.”
“That’s the problem,” I whisper. “Songs end. Secrets don’t.”
His fingers tighten slightly at my waist. “We’ll handle the secrets.”
That “we” tugs at something tender.
We sway. The music settles into a rhythm and so do we. My body betrays me and slowly stops fighting. My cheek brushes his shoulder once when the crowd shifts and I forget to keep distance.
His thumb strokes the back of my hand, slow, absentminded. Each pass sends a little jolt up my arm. My heart is doing a tap dance in my ribcage and my brain has decided to observe instead of intervene.
“You’re doing that thing,” I say quietly.
“What thing?”
“Being gentle.”
His jaw works. “Would you prefer rough?”
I swallow.
He notices. His gaze drops to my mouth and back up again.
“This is dangerous,” I breathe.
“Dancing?”
“You.”
