Except Axel is still staring. “You sure?”
“I’msure.” I add a little more bite this time, and it’s enough to make him glance my way. Realize why I’m sure.
His eyes widen. “Oh. Shit. Your girl?”
“Yeah,” I say, resenting how right the confirmation sounds.
“Lucky bastard,” he mutters, sucking down the rest of his beer. “I’m gonna grab another.”
“Sounds good,” I say, turning to survey the rest of the first floor.
The plan is open concept, convenient for entertaining, although I doubt Macie’s grandparents had this sort of party in mind when they purchased the place.
Wren is holding court in the kitchen, leaning a hip against the island as she talks to the four guys gathered around her.
I head that way, ignoring Gus’s shit-eating grin as I pass him, talking to Wade and Cammie. Cammie rolls her eyes; Wade flashes me a thumbs-up.
I shove right through the group of guys, jaw clenching when I get a good look at her outfit. Wren seems to own an endless supply of short dresses.
I unclench my jaw when one of the guys greets me by name, looking over to figure out his identity. “Hey, Schultz. Back up, yeah?” I glance around, including the other guys in the directive.
They all scatter, and then my eyes return to Wren.
She crosses her arms, pushing her boobs up. I stare, and she smirks.
“That was rude, Cap.”
I take a step closer so she has to tilt her head back to hold my gaze. “Can I talk to you?”
“We’re talking right now.”
“Outside.”
Everyone in the kitchen is attempting to eavesdrop on our conversation. And not very subtly.
“I was about to dance actually.”
I glance toward the living room, tempted to grimace. I hate dancing. Something Wren has probably guessed, and that’s why she’s mentioning it.
“Okay. Wanna dance with me?”
Surprise flashes across Wren’s face before she schools it. “Can you dance?”
I look toward the far corner of the living room again, where the speaker is set up and the dancing is taking place. The “dancing” in question is mostly a guy rocking in place while a girl grinds her ass against him.
“I think I can figure it out.”
She scoffs, then strides away, toward the music.
It’s not exactly an invitation or an acceptance of my invitation, but I follow her anyway.
Wren stops at the guy who’s got an amateur DJ setup, leaning down and whispering something that has him nodding and smiling up at her. She straightens, missing the way he checks out her ass, glancing at me expectantly.
She’s waiting for me to lead, I guess, and this is the one activity I’m really not comfortable doing so. I can show off pitching or sailing, but dancing?Wayoutside my comfort zone. I danced as a kid, putting on fakeconcerts with friends, but I’ve never attempted it as an adult. I skipped every school-sanctioned event that wasn’t mandatory—and some that were after Skylar died—never attending homecoming or prom.
But I swallow my uneasiness and hold a hand out to Wren. She takes it, a quick smile appearing when I use our hands to pull her into my chest. We collide, and I let her hand go to wrap my arms around her lower back. She rests her wrists on my shoulders, head tilted back to maintain eye contact.
We sway like that, and I decide I don’t hate dancing. Not with Wren at least.
