I’ve seen Lyra in all types of dresses. I’ve been her escort at countless parties and galas, and I’ve held her in my arms as we’ve danced.
I’ve seen her look beautiful—she is beautiful—but she’s never stolen my breath like she does now.
Odin escorts her to the throne at the end of the runway and steps away, leaving Lyra facing us.
There are mutters and whispers, whistles and cheers, and Lyra waves before dropping into a curtsy even better than the one she once gave to the Queen of England.
But instead of settling onto the throne to let us start, which is what I think she’s supposed to do, Lyra starts down the wooden runway.
Hips swaying, arms swinging, and silver shoes peeking out from under her skirt, Lyra looks like she was made for a catwalk.
The guys erupt with cheers as she reaches the end, blows a kiss to the group, and turns to retrace her steps.
“And that’s how you do it,” Grayson cries over the din. With a last wave, Lyra takes her seat. “Rand, you’re up.”
Rand, cheeks as red as his hair, dressed in a bold striped grey suit, does his best to copy Lyra’s walk, even dropping a curtsy when he pauses in front of the throne.
She’s laughing as much as the rest of us, and it lightens the palpable nerves.
At least mine, anyway.
One by one, we head down the wooden runway, each trying to put their personality into the walk and how we pause in front of Lyra.
There are a lot of bows and a few curtsies, although no one pulls it off like Rand. Boone, who is the most intimidating one here, drops to one knee and kisses Lyra’s hand. Dylan, the firefighter, strikes a pose before he starts stripping off his jacket and tie, and managing to get his shirt off before he reaches Lyra, and then tosses it to her.
Jon stalks like he’s possessed by a panther, and Leo pretends to dance.
“No fair—he was just on Dancing with the Stars,” Rand grumbles good-naturedly.
Ashton struts, hands in pockets, looking like he does this every day, even though he’s wearing the most obnoxious bright blue suit with a loud paisley print. Tanner pretends to skate, and Basher, ever present drumsticks in hand, plays a drum solo as he strolls toward Lyra.
And then it’s my turn.
I was so busy watching the others that I never planned what I would do. But as I step forward, it just comes to me. Holding Lyra’s gaze, I walk toward her, hands in the pockets of my dark purple velvet suit like I’m taking a stroll across the square in Battle Harbour to the coffee shop.
At the end, I stand for a moment before her before I extend my hand.
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Lyra
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fcourseItakehis hand, because I know exactly what Spencer is doing.
I rise from the chair—super uncomfortable in the bum area—gripping Spencer’s hand.
“You look exquisite,” he says simply.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
His hand slides to my back. “Do you remember the Christmas party the mayor had?”
“Of course.” I grin, adjusting my stance.
And then Spencer swoops me into a waltz.
There’s no music, but the steps come back as though we practiced them all day yesterday. I had been sixteen, and Spencer was home from his second year at university. The new mayor—married to Duncan’s ex-wife—had been hosting a Christmas dance, even though my father would have one the next week as well.
