I inhaled, glancing at Brigham, who was now fully draped over another one of the guy’s shoulders.
“He’s already drunk,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “And if he goes out, he’ll do something he regrets.”
Brooks’ expression shifted, his eyes narrowing slightly, like he was seeing me in a different light. “You care about him,” he said, surprise evident in his voice.
I rolled my shoulders back, suddenly itching to get out of this conversation. Caring about people led to expectations. Expectations led to disappointment.
“A little,” I admitted, hating the vulnerability that seeped into my words.
Brooks shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. “It won’t kill you to like people, Mitch.”
I exhaled sharply, bracing myself. Because I knew what was coming next. He leaned in, his voice softer, lower, meant just for me.
“I know people can be the worst. But sometimes, if you let them, they can be the best thing about being alive.”
I swallowed, hating how badly I wanted to believe him. But I’d been raised in a war zone, where love was a loaded gun, and caring too much meant handing someone the bullets.
I forced my walls back up, brick by brick, and smirked. “You have an old soul, my friend.”
Brooks tilted his head, studying me again, like he could hear the things I wasn’t saying. After a beat, he leaned back, swirling his drink. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Twenty-six.”
“Interesting,” he mused, a glint in his eye.
I waited. Fought it. But damn it, I caved.
“Why?”
He took a slow sip, savoring it before responding. “You’re the same age as Brigham, yet miles more mature. Makes me wonder what life threw at you to make you grow up so fast.”
I felt it then. The crack. The shift. Brooks wasn’t just flirting. He wasseeingme.
I needed to stop this conversation. Immediately. I cleared my throat, but Brooks was a step ahead of me. He stood, held out a hand with his eyes shining. “Would you like to dance with me?”
“I don’t dance,” I said immediately, hating how my heart sped up at the mere thought of it. No one had ever asked me to dance before. Not in high school and certainly not as an adult. It wasn’t something I did.
“Are you embarrassed you don’t know how? Aw, how cute.” He clicked his tongue, thinking he was so clever, and shrugged. “I can show you. It’s pretty easy. In fact, I’ll do it right here.”
He held his arms out like a mummy and swayed his hips side to side right next to me. “You move back and forth like this. Sometimes, you move fast.” He shook his body at a rapid pace. “Or slow.” He slowed it down and soon, people were looking at us from other tables. “A guy can twirl his date sometimes.” He twirled himself, and I finally gave in.
“Oh my god, stop. I’ll do it.” I pushed up from the table, torn between laughing at him or with him, and he held out his hand. I hesitated, trying to come up with some reason why this meant nothing, but he didn’t wait. He grabbed me and dragged me to the dance floor. A slow, hipster song played over the speakers, and he positioned us so we were chest to chest with our arms sticking out—still holding hands.
“Ah, this is nice,” he said into my hair. His breath hit my neck, and I shivered at our proximity. “Speaking strictly as afriend, you feel very nice.”
I snorted and looked up at him, trying not to think about how close our mouths were. “So this is slow dancing.”
“I’m assuming you’ve done this before?”
I shook my head. His expression softened into one bordering on pity, and I was about to walk away when he spun me around, pulling me tighter to his chest.
“Smooth.”
“I saw the panic in your eyes, so I distracted you.”
“Quick thinking.”
“I have my moments. Now…” He paused, spinning me again. “Give me your score on a scale of one to ten—how is the dance so far? Nine point nine out of ten?”
