The sound of her laughter—carefree, light—cut through Ryder louder than the music.
He didn't think. He didn't calculate the risk to his femur.
He pushed off the wall.
Thump. Drag. Thump.
He moved into the crowd. He navigated the sea of dancers like a battleship moving through a fleet of fishing boats. People parted for the crutches, their eyes widening.
Ryder didn't look at them. He locked his eyes on the navy blue dress.
He reached the center of the floor.
Paul was just turning her.
Ryder planted his crutches. He tapped Paul on the shoulder.
"Excuse me," Ryder said. His voice was low, dangerous.
Paul turned around. He saw Ryder Stone looming over him, broken but still carrying the aura of a man who fought bulls for a living.
"Ryder," Paul stammered. "I... didn't know you were dancing."
"I'm cutting in," Ryder said.
He looked at Elena.
Her smile had vanished. She looked at him with a mix of shock and warning.
"Ryder, you can't dance," she hissed. "Your leg."
"I can sway," he said.
He looked at Paul. "Take a hike, Paul."
Paul looked at Elena. Elena sighed. She nodded at Paul. "It's okay. Give us a minute."
Paul retreated.
Ryder and Elena stood alone in the middle of the dance floor. The music swelled.
"You are an idiot," Elena whispered, stepping closer. "If you fall, I am not catching you again."
"I won't fall," Ryder said.
He shifted his weight, balancing precariously. He couldn't hold her like a normal man. He needed the crutches.
"Put your hands on my shoulders," he said.
Elena hesitated. Then, slowly, she reached up. Her hands settled on his shoulders. The touch was warm, heavy.
Ryder leaned in. He couldn't put his hands on her waist without dropping a crutch. So he just stood there, suspended by the aluminum and her grip.
They didn't really dance. They just drifted. A slow, microscopic rotation in the center of the room.
"You're making a scene," Elena murmured, looking at his chest.
"I'm a cowboy," Ryder said. "We make scenes."
