A little bit later a slow jazz band tucked into the corner of the ballroom, starts playing. It’s the kind of music that makes couples drift toward the dance floor like it’s inevitable.
Jake is watching the band mesmerized.
Then he turns to me with sudden, intense focus. “Tal.”
The way he says my name makes my stomach drop.
“Yes?” I say cautiously.
His eyes are bright. “Do you hear that?”
“Yes,” I whisper. “It’s music.”
He nods slowly. “Yes.”
A pause.
“We should dance.”
My eyebrows shoot up.
“Jake—”
But he’s already standing.
My hand tightens around his sleeve.
“Jake,” I hiss, “this is not the time—”
Too late.
He pulls me gently but insistently to my feet, weaving our fingers together again like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Come on,” he murmurs. “Trust me.”
I’m not entirely sure I should trust him in this condition, but he looks so happy I can’t refuse him.
We step onto the dance floor.
People make space immediately. When the captain of the Metro Raptors moves somewhere, space tends to open around him automatically.
Jake turns toward me, places one hand at my waist, and takes my other hand.
We sway slowly.
I let out a quiet breath of relief.
Okay. This is manageable.
Then the music shifts to something upbeat—definitely not suitable for ballroom dancing—and Jake Morrison, normally the most controlled, disciplined man on earth, starts freestyle dancing like the music personally invited him.
His shoulders loosen. His hips shift to the beat.
His arms move in wide, exaggerated motions like he’s conducting the band.
I stare at him. “Jake.”
“Yes?”
