Reluctantly, she placed her hand in his and moved forward. “How do you do it?”
“Put your weight on the sides of your feet and let the socks and the tile do the rest.”
“I’m going to break my neck doing this.”
“Or you might have fun.”
She gave it a little running start and slid a few inches.
“See?” he said. Once she got a taste of it, there was no way she’d be a ball of stressed-out socks.
She did it again, this time with more of a running start.
“It’s fun,” she conceded.
While her words were not enthusiastic, the gleam in her eyes was back.
“Try a spin.” He stepped back, so she had more of the floor.
“I seriously cannot break my neck. Who would fix dinner?”
“I seriously will not let that happen. And me.”
“How?” she asked. “Exactly how do I…?” She made a slide motion with her hands.
“C’mere,” he said, holding his hand out again.
She took it—without the reluctance this time. He moved in to her like they were going to dance. The glimmer from her eyes dimmed as he moved into her space, moving into something else. Something heated.
His entire body tingled with the zing of her contact.
The air seemed thicker when they were this close. For some reason, that didn’t deter him.
Platonic, this was platonic. He repeated it over and over in his mind like one of April’s mantras as he pulled her in to him like a dance partner and, when she was close enough, he spun her back out. She squealed, and he loved it. Loved her expression. The exhilaration and bliss. That’s what he expected he’d looked like back in the day when he did his first sock spin.
Still gripping her hand, he pulled her back to him before spinning her again. She squealed again, high and rich before laughing like he’d never heard. The sound that made a guy proud and ready to do anything in his power to make it happen again.
That’s when he got brave, because he added an extra twist on her way back to him. This time she tripped the smallest of millimeters. He moved quickly, catching her around the waist before she could biff it.
Instead, she fell right into him, her chest pressed against his in a way that had his body responding like he was truly a teenager again. A teenager with no restraint.
The scent of her—lavender and something floral—enveloped the space in a way that made him not want to let her go.
She parted her lips, and they wererightthere. Only inches from him. And the air was crackling and his body was responding and her body—if her quick breaths, flushed skin, and dilated pupils were any sign—was also in on the game.
So, yeah, she was right there smelling so good and feeling even better.
His hand trailed up her back to the base of her neck, his fingertips tracing along where her shirt met her neck.
Her chest heaved against him and he flashed back to the morning and their conversation about right and wrong. For the life of him, he couldn’t figure out where this situation landed on that spectrum.
Because the way his body reacted to her was definitely wrong, but the way it felt was very, very right.
Her hands smoothing the cotton fabric of his button-down shirt, she said, “Ja—”
But she got no further because the front door opened and she froze. Utterly froze.
He did, too.
