His eyes slid away, toward the TV that wasn’t on. “I don’t ... do that anymore.”
The hopelessness in those few words did something ugly and painful to my insides.
“Okay,” I said, more firmly than I felt. I took a few steps back toward him, closing some of the distance. “New proposal.”
He eyed me warily. “Those are rarely good.”
“Two minutes,” I said. “Right here. No crowd. No sticky floors. No strangers. If you hate it, I’ll shut up and go twerk on strangers at the Lantern without you.”
He huffed, like he was gearing up for a fight. “Clara?—”
“Wes.” I planted myself in front of him, close enough to see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough to smell soap and that faint woodsy note that had been driving me insane for days. “You survived sledding. You can survive swaying in your own living room.”
His gaze dropped to my mouth before cutting away. The muscle in his jaw ticced. “This is a bad idea.”
“So were most of my decisions in the last year.” I grinned up at him and blinked innocently. “Didn’t stop me.”
Something that might have been a reluctant laugh flickered in his eyes.
I lifted a hand. “Come on. Two minutes. You can even count.”
He stared at my outstretched fingers like they were a test he hadn’t studied for. Then he sighed, low and annoyed at himself, and took one step toward me.
“Two minutes,” he said. “Then you leave me alone and go terrorize someone else.”
I bit back a giddy laugh. “Deal.”
He stepped even closer, careful, like he was approaching an edge. I reached for his left hand and guided it to my waist, right above my hip bone. His palm was warm and wide, fingers curling in reflex before he seemed to realize what he was doing and tried to loosen them.
The spark that shot through me at that little flex was ridiculous.
“Other hand,” I said, offering mine with a wiggle of my fingers.
He took it, his grip a little too firm, like he was holding on for dear life.
“Okay,” I murmured. “We’re not doing a tango. Just ... shift. Weight to the right. Then to the left. Most guys don’t know how to do more than sway anyway.”
He snorted. “Real inspiring imagery, Duchess.”
“I’m not auditioning to be your dance coach,” I said. “I’m just trying to prove your rhythm didn’t get amputated.”
His brow arched. “You’re very confident for someone who can’t knit a straight row.”
“Harsh,” I said, smiling despite myself. “Now move your feet.”
His chest lifted on a breath. Then, slowly, he did.
We started small. Barely moving at all. His weight eased to one leg, then the other, the shift controlled and deliberate. I could feel every micro adjustment through his hand at my waist, the cautious give in his body, the way he kept his core locked, like he was still bracing for a fall.
“You’re overthinking,” I said, quietly breathing in the scent at his neck. “It’s just us, Wes. Nobody’s judging you on your form.”
His gaze flicked down, met mine. We were closer than I’d realized. Close enough to count the darker ring around his irises, the tiny scar at the edge of his eyebrow, and the faint hitch of his breath as his gaze locked onto mine.
“Easy for you to say,” he murmured. “Your leg does what it’s supposed to.”
My heart pinched. “Your leg just got you down a hill and back up again,” I said. “It’s allowed to figure shit out. Same as the rest of you.”
His mouth twitched, something soft and painful in his eyes. The stiffness in his shoulders eased a fraction as he rolled his shoulders back. His hand at my waist tightened, just a little, like he’d forgotten to be careful for one second.
