He clears his throat, like he’s reminding himself we’re in a store and not somewhere with fewer people and rules.
“May I?” he asks, nodding at the little stool. “Help you down.”
I nod. He steps in, and I put my hand in his. The contact is small, and it feels enormous. He holds while I ease off the stool, careful of the hem. When both heels find the carpet, we don’t let go right away.
The music shifts into something slow. Strings and piano glide together in a slow tune. His thumb presses once against my knuckles, barely there, but I feel it.
“This is dangerous,” I say quietly.
He doesn’t answer. His other hand settles at my waist, and we do a slow turn that makes the skirt circle my legs.
I should laugh it off. I don’t. I slide my free hand to his shoulder, and we move astep, then another.
“You’re good at this,” I say.
“Occupational hazard,” he says. “Galas, fundraisers.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, lifts to my eyes, drops again. Heat rises under my skin as if I had stepped into sunlight.
“This is a bad idea,” I whisper.
“Yes,” he says. “It is.”
We keep moving anyway.
The song glides into a soft swell. His breath touches my temple. I taste metal in my mouth from wanting to speak and not.
“Does it fit?” he asks after a beat.
I don’t think he’s talking about the dress.
“It does,” I say. “Perfectly.”
“You’re going to make the room stop,” he says.
I want to roll my eyes, brush off his comment. “I doubt that,” I say hoarsely.
“I don’t,” he says. His thumb moves the smallest fraction at my waist, not quite a stroke, not quite nothing.
We turn again. In the mirror, the dress and the tux do what they were built to do: transform two humans into a story.
“I like the color,” he says, eyes on mine in the glass. “It looks like it was made for you.”
“It was made for someone who doesn’t plan on eating bread,” I say dryly.
“You can eat bread,” he says, equally dry. “You’ll still look like this.”
I shouldn’t, but I ask. “Like what?”
His gaze drops, not to my body, but to the place where our hands meet. He swallows once. “Like temptation,” he says quietly,
Heat moves through me so fast I nearly lose the step. He steadies me without making a thing of it. I get my feet back under me, and we keep time with the piano because that’s easier than trying to figure out whatever this is.
We don’t talk for a few beats. I feel the floor through the thin sole of the shoe. I feel the pulse in his wrist where my fingers rest. I feel things in places I can’t name without getting red. The scent of him is cool and clean. My mouth goes dry for a second. I breathe, and it passes.
Someone in the front laughs. The shop’s bell gives that tiny chime again. The seamstress’s voice floats back. The steamer shuts off.
“Will you dance at the ball?” I ask, and I’m shocked at myself for my boldness.
