“Alright, people,” she declares. “You’ve eaten, you’ve toasted, you’ve scandalized me with your conversations by the mozzarella sticks. It’s time for the first dance.”
My heart stutters.
Scottie appears in front of me as if Juliet conjured him, hand extended, eyes earnest.
“Will you dance with me?” he asks, as if it’s a true question. As if he wouldn’t force me if I said no. But I want to.
My fingers are steady when I place them in his. “I don’t know… are you a good dancer?” I tease.
He takes my hand in his and helps me out of my chair. “I’m not Juilliard trained, but I think I know enough to spin you around a dance floor successfully without looking like an idiot.”
I let out a laugh as I follow him, hand in hand, to the middle of the dance floor.
He leads me to the center of the makeshift dance floor. The crowd melts back, forming a loose ring around us. The lights seem to dim of their own accord, the fairy lights overhead casting everything in a soft, golden glow.
The music shifts to something slower.
He places one hand on my waist, the other still holding mine. I rest my free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid heat of him through the layers of fabric.
“I think it’s only fair that I warn you,” he says quietly, against my ear. “I might have undersold my dancing ability just now.”
I pull back for just a moment to see that he’s teasing me. “Uh-huh? Is that right?” I ask, playing along.
“Yep. My mom put me in square dancing lessons when I was seven.”
“Oh, did she now?” I try not to laugh, matching his seriousness.
“It’s entirely possible that I might outperform your Juilliard training in front of all of our friends. I just don’t want you to hate me if it goes down like that.”
A smile tugs at my mouth. “Hate you? No…” I tell him. “Not on our wedding night.”
He huffs a soft laugh and then pulls me closer.
We start to move.
It’s not complicated, just a gentle sway side-to-side in time with the music. No elaborate steps, no choreography—just the simple act of being close and moving together.
He doesn’t step on my toes once. He wasn’t lying, though…he does have rhythm.
His hand on my waist is warm and careful. Our joined hands hang between us, the pads of his fingers calloused against my skin. The faint smell of his cologne, clean with a hint of spice, wraps around me, blending with the scents of candle wax, cake, and the leftover catered dinner.
The room seems to fall away.
“Thank you,” I say, before I can second-guess it.
His brows draw together slightly. “For what?”
“For all of this,” I gesture with our joined hands, the movement small, encompassing orchids and fairy lights and thirty people crammed into a bar for us. “For the wedding. The ring. The roof. For not… making it small so that I can make sure my grandmother believes it.”
He studies me for a second, like he’s trying to see past what I’m saying to what I mean.
“Luke made all of this happen,” he says.
“No… not all of it,” I say. “You didn’t have to do half the things you’ve done.”
“Maybe not.” His thumb brushes over the back of my hand, a small, soothing stroke. “But I wanted to.”
My chest tightens.
