“I’m sorry,” I whisper into his ear.
He startles and turns toward me, smile fading. “Oh. Hey.” His gaze travels over my face. “Thought I’d lost you there.”
“Nah.” I slip into the empty chair at his side. “I’m here. Always.”
I wave at Cat and admire her dress. She brushes it off humbly, but her cheeks pink up.
Asher rubs his neck before returning his attention to Maxwell. “Anyway, she—um... What was I saying?”
Maxwell glances at me, then back to Asher. “You said she was refusing meds?”
“Oh, right.” Asher chuckles. “She was okay with being induced, but didn’t want Pitocin, so she was asking me all the natural ways to induce.”
Maxwell smirks and sips his beer, like he knows where this story is going. No way does he know. I nearly peed myself when Asher first told me.
“I give her the spiel—that nothing really works, but I mention nipple stimulation.”
A little chuckle from Maxwell.
“Inpassing,” Asher says. “I barely touched on it. Like, a single mention. But she latches on to that idea like it’s her only chance. Her Hail Mary.”
Maxwell’s wife leans her elbows on the table. “I’m guessing it doesn’t work?”
Asher has begun hisgiggle, the one where he’s telling a story he thinks is hilarious, so he can’t quite get the words out. “I tell her husband, ‘All right, man. Go for it. Stimulatethose nipples.’ And I come back an hour later—”giggle, giggle“—and the guy has a sheet up, blocking his view of his wife, but his hands are under the sheet, clearly going to town—”giggle, giggle“—so I’m like, ‘Why are you covering her up? You’ve never seen your wife’s nipples?’ And the patient shrieks, ‘Ew! That’s not my husband! That’s my brother!’?”
Asher drops his face into his hand and titters. Maxwell’s eyes go wide, and his deep laugh fills the spaces between us all.
“Oh, my god,” says Maxwell’s wife. “What did you say?”
Asher’s voice has risen in pitch with his laughter. “I just— I said I had to check on something and—and I left. I mean—” he looks up from his hand “—it was her brother! What the fuck? Just... why?”
Insides warm, I snicker. “That’s some family dedication.”
“Maxwell,” a bridesmaid says as she approaches the table, “it’s almost time for the speeches.”
He nods and rises. “I’ll see y’all after.”
Cat follows him, leaving Asher and me alone. He turns my way and volunteers a rueful smile, wiping the gleeful tears from his eyes. “I made it awkward. Again. I can’t seem to stop doing that. I’m sorry.”
“No.” I grip his forearm, thinly wrapped in soft, white cotton. “I’m the one who made it awkward. Can we start the night over?”
“Yeah.” He takes a breath. “Weirdness never happened.”
I grin. “Great. Yes. Exactly!”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then my neck, before bouncing back to my eyes. “So... how do we do that?”
“Um.” How indeed? “Why don’t we... dance?”
His eyes go utterly opaque. “Dance?”
I point at the DJ, currently spinning some high-energy pop tune. “Well,you’lldance, and I’ll hop in place like usual.”
That finally brings a smile to his mouth. “You aren’t that bad.”
“I can’t even chicken dance.” I grab his hand and drag him toward the dance floor, packed with swaying elderly couples, moms boogying with their adorable toddlers, and twentysomethings in a dance circle, drinks in hand.
Asher melts into the crowd like he belongs there. His moves are the same ones I’ve seen in bars back home, Oktoberfest tents, Vegas nightclubs. I like those moves. They’re familiar. Easy to predict.
