She looks up at me, eyes still troubled from the conversation she just had with Anika, but going back to a quiet honeymoon suite might not be the best idea to avoid the awkward silence. A night of dancing with a bar full of people and liquid distraction might be a better option.
“What do you think?” I ask softly.
She breathes out. “I think dancing is better than talking.”
A slow smile pulls at my mouth. “Yeah. I was thinking the same.”
I clap my cousin on the shoulder. “We’ll be there.”
He cheers and bolts off to rally the others.
I slip my hand into Katerina’s, warm and small in mine.
We stop by my parents’ table, and I kiss my mom’s head, then pat my dad’s shoulder. “We’re heading to Jake’s. See you tomorrow.”
Mom beams. Dad winks. And I pull Katerina out toward the rental truck, her hand still tucked inside mine.
She was right, dancing is better than talking. Because when she’s in my arms on the dance floor, there’s no fear in her eyes.
And if she thinks I was good on the wedding dance floor?... She hasn’t seen me in a honky-tonk yet.
Jake’s Roadhouse is loud, crowded, warm with bodies and laughter and twangy guitar chords vibrating through thefloorboards. The kind of place I grew up in: wooden beams, neon beer signs, sawdust scattered like confetti on the planks.
Katerina takes one step inside and blinks like she’s entered another universe.
“Drinks or dancing first?” I ask, leaning down so she can hear me.
“Dancing… definitely dancing,” she says, eyes wide, lips curving. “This is… different.”
“Different good?”
She nods slowly. “I think so.”
I tug her onto the middle of the dance floor, and the second a good beat hits, I spin her under my arm. She lets out a startled laugh—crystal clear, like something rare and precious cracking through the heavy fog she carried from the reception.
“There it is,” I breathe. “There’s that smile.”
“You didn’t tell me you were good at this,” she says breathlessly as I pull her closer.
“You didn’t ask.”
We move together so easily, like we’ve danced this way for years. I twirl her, dip her, let her bounce against my chest as the crowd hoots and hollers around us. Everyone else is spinning their partners around too.
She laughs again, and it’s the best damn sound I’ve ever heard. She gets the hang of it and lets me lead her around the dance floor.
An hour passes in a blur of country songs and her teasing me about my footwork and me teasing her about being too graceful to two-step like a normal person.
But then the bar fills more. Bodies crowd in. The fast songs fade.
A slow, low, sultry beat rolls in.
People press closer and her back fits to my front like it was made to fit there, her spine brushing my chest every time she breathes.
And then she moves.
Just a small shift at first, barely anything, like she’s adjusting to the rhythm.
But then she does it again.
