“I warned you!”
“I thought you were exaggerating.”
“I never exaggerate about my complete lack of coordination.”
He’s laughing now, and so am I, and we’re still moving even though I’m pretty sure we’re not exactly dancing so much as shuffling in a vague circle while I assault his feet.
But then, somehow, we find a rhythm. His hand tightens slightly on my waist, steadying me. My hand on his shoulder relaxes. We stop thinking about it and just…move.
The music swells, something slow and romantic, and suddenly we’re not stumbling anymore. We’re dancing. Actually dancing.
The candlelight from the nearby café tables flickers across his features, catching on the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, those eyes that are suddenly looking at me like I’m something worth looking at.
He pulls me closer, leaning in until his breath grazes my ear.
“See?” he says softly. “Not catastrophic.”
“Yet. The night is young.”
“Ever the optimist.”
“It’s one of my many charms.”
He pulls back, laughing again, and his smile fades slightly. His eyes drop to my mouth for just a second before coming back to my eyes. My stomach does that swooping thing again, and I’m suddenly very aware of how close we are, how his hand is splayed across my waist, how I can smell whatever soap orcologne he uses—something clean and slightly woodsy. I can feel the warmth of him through our clothes, can feel his heartbeat against my palm where my hand rests on his chest.
Or maybe that’s mine. It’s hard to tell when they’re both racing.
“Chloe,” he says, and his voice has this rough edge to it that I haven’t heard before.
“Yeah?”
He doesn’t answer. Just looks at me for a long moment, like he’s trying to decide something.
And then he glances around—at the couples dancing, at the people sitting at café tables, at the general publicness of where we are—and makes a decision.
He takes my hand and leads me away from the dancing area, toward a quieter corner of the plaza, where string lights drape between orange trees. We pause beneath the branches, the trees creating the illusion of privacy, just far enough from the crowd that the music feels like a distant dream.
Brody’s still holding my hand, and he’s looking at me with this intensity that makes my knees weak.
“I’ve been wanting to do this all evening,” he says, his voice low. “Can I?—”
“Yes,” I say before he can finish, because I know what he’s asking, and the answer is absolutely, definitely,yes.
And then he kisses me.
And—
Oh.
Oh, this is what all those romance novels were talking about.
His mouth is warm and soft and sure, and his hand comes up to cup my face, his thumb brushing my cheek, and I make this embarrassing sound—half sigh, half something else—because this ishappening, this is real, Brody is kissing me and it’s perfect and overwhelming and?—
He pulls back suddenly, his eyes wide.
“Sorry,” he says, breathing hard. “I shouldn’t have—I didn’t mean to?—”
“I’m not sorry.”
