I sigh loudly, and Logan gives me a slow smile. “What? Is that bad?”
“If you’re married or coupled up, it’s probably fine. It’s basically an excuse to grind on the dance floor.”
“Not your thing?”
“Not anymore.”
“So it was, once.”
“More than once.” I take a sip of my drink and peer at him over the rim. “I used to know how to have fun.”
He scans my expression for a beat. “Be my partner.”
“What?”
“Ava just called partners down to the dance floor. You know what you’re doing. I don’t. Teach me.”
“Youwant to dance?”
He tips up his sparkling water, sets it back on the bar, and holds out a hand to me. I pick up my Bellerive Blue, chug the rest of it, and when I place my hand in his, my palm is engulfed. God, he’s got big hands.
He leads me through the bar with more authority than I’d expect, heading straight for the staircase that takes us to the first floor. I’m surprised—though I shouldn’t be—when we stop in the middle of the dance floor, front and center.
“You sure about this?” I ask, and his hand is still secured around mine.
“I’ve got great body awareness.” He looks down at me. “You’ve got this ‘look at me’ dress on. You afraid you won’t look good dancing with me?”
I laugh. “You just don’t seem like you enjoy the spotlight.”
“You sure about that?” He squints at me, and Ava resumes her running commentary on the mic, almost drowning him out.
I let myself consider his question for a beat. He’s one of the team’s assistant captains. Plays like he’s on fire on the ice, and he’s trying to become the best in the league. “I guess it’s more that you prefer to choose when you’re in the spotlight.”
He leans down so his lips are close to my ear. “Good girl, doc.” A shiver races through me.
Then he forces me to spin away, my short dress swirling around my thighs. I let out a startled laugh, probably drawing more attention to the two of us than I want, but I don’t look at anyone except him. It feels good not to care, to be with someone who seems oblivious to what anyone else might think.
“We’re not starting yet,” Ava says, and annoyance is in her voice, likely directed at me and Logan. Normally, the annoyance between us runs the other way. Of course, our roles are usually reversed too—I’m the one organizing something, and she’s the one ruining it with outrageous behavior.
“She’s bossy,” Logan says.
“Assertive,” I say. “Would you call a guy bossy?”
“No, I’d call him an asshole.”
That makes me laugh again, and I can see an amused glint in Logan’s hazel eyes, though he’s not smiling.
“Okay, everyone,” another female voice is on the mic, one that I recognize from the few Tuesdays I’ve come here for their bachata lessons. “My partner and I are going to take you through some basic steps. I’ll explain, we’ll demonstrate, and then you can try.”
The dance floor is surprisingly crowded, and if I was going to look around, now would be the time to do it. But I like this little bubble that Logan has created around us. It’s sturdy enough that I don’t have to care about anything but being inthismoment.
I keep my back to the demonstration, but I listen when the step is explained. Logan draws me into his arms, and I’m suddenly aware again of how big he is. Broad, tall, and so fit. There’s a furrow in his brow that makes his concentration clear, and the light beard he’s adopted draws my attention to his sculpted jawline, his full lips. He’s not just hot. He’s actually kind of beautiful, and I wonder whether his scruffy appearance was a way to hide, in a sense, from prying eyes. He doesn’t seem like the type to be unaware of his effect on women.
The woman on the mic counts out the steps, and I grin up at Logan when he gets it right.
“Told you,” he says, glancing down with a smug expression. “I’m not going to step on your toes. You’re safe with me.”
My heart thuds at his words, at the confidence, at the notion that it might be true.Safeis something I’ve come to value more than I ever thought I would.
