He excused himself and crossed the space between us with his confident stride, hands casually tucked into the pockets of his pants. At some point, he had removed his jacket, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up to his forearms. My favorite look on him.
Damn, what a sexy man.
"Care to dance?" he asked when he reached me.
Salsa music pulsed through the barn, fast and rhythmic and well beyond my skill level. My eyes drifted to where Blossom and Manuel were moving together, surrounded by a crowd of family and friends who all seemed to know exactly which steps to take.
"Um, we didn't take salsa lessons, and I don't want to embarrass either of us," I told him.
My family called me Rhythmless Nation behind my back. No way was I getting on the dance floor.
"Are you scared?" Jamison taunted, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"I'm notscared..."
He arched an eyebrow. "Then dance like no one's watching."
"Salsa, though?" I eyed the dance floor with trepidation.
My mind spun with all the reasons I should decline. I could trip over my own feet. I might step on his toes. I would look ridiculous. People would notice. People would laugh.
Then I realized what I was doing.
I had fallen into an old trap, where I cared too much about other people's opinions. Where I chose safety over joy. Our kids had almost made the same mistake. I knew better. Even Jamison, a man who lived his life with rigid structure, who arrived everywhere early and planned his day down to the minute, knew better.
He held out his hand and rocked his hips from side to side in an exaggerated, epically unserious movement that made me burst out laughing.
God, I loved this man.
I placed my hand in his. "Let's do this."
He led me onto the dance floor, weaving a path through the friends and family twisting and turning more elegantly than I ever could. The music thrummed through the floorboards, up through my feet, encouraging me to let loose.
Jamison and I stepped into position and moved at the same time, bumping into each other.
I laughed, mortified. "Sorry. I?—"
"One, two, three," he muttered under his breath.
We both moved at the same time again and nearly collided again. I laughed harder, the sound bubbling out of me in a helplessly unguarded way.
Shaking his head, Jamison's eyes crinkled at the corners with amusement.
"This is going well," I said.
He leaned forward, bringing his lips to my ear. "Let me lead."
And so I did. I relaxed, following instead of trying to steer. Our feet found the rhythm. Not perfectly. Not gracefully. But enough.
The music wrapped around us, the press of other bodies on the dance floor fading into obscurity. It was just me and Jamison, dancing to the sexy beat, his hand resting on my back in a reassuring way, melting my embarrassment into oblivion.
We weren't dancing salsa. We were just dancing. To our own beat. Our own rhythm. The one we had been working on for months—through cake tastings, yoga, dance lessons, late-night conversations, and an intervention to help our children trust themselves and their love.
"You're doing great," Jamison said, guiding me into a spin.
The song shifted into something slower, and the energy of the guests adjusted to fit the new tune. Couples edged closer as the frantic salsa rhythm gave way to a gentler sound. Jamison drew me in, and I willingly wrapped my arms around him and rested my head against his chest. I didn't care who knew we were together. This was my man, and I was publicly claiming him.
We danced until my feet—in heels I rarely wore—hurt. Then Blossom and Manuel cut the cake—a beautiful three-tier almond cake with Biscoff buttercream frosting—and zero cannabis.
