Ryder doesn’t comment on my gracelessness. He adjusts his grip, shifts his weight, and moves. He leads me into a slow two-step, his body guiding mine with easy confidence. Right foot forward, left foot follows, slide together. His hand at my hip directs me gently, not pushing, not pulling, simply suggesting the direction and trusting me to follow.
And I do. My body responds to his even as my mind stays several beats behind, trying to catch up to the reality that I’m slow-dancing with Ryder Evans.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs.
“I’m not.”
“Your shoulders are up around your ears.”
Damn it. He’s right. I relax them, and my movements become easier. Smoother.
“Better.” The hint of a smile curls his lips.
We sway in silence for a few bars.
The hand holding mine is gentle but firm. His thumb brushes absently over my knuckles, a small motion that sends sparks skittering up my arm and down my spine. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it. If it’s intentional or just a habit. Who did he use to dance with? This clearly isn’t his first rodeo.
The skin where his hand rests on my hip is slowly reaching core-of-the-Earth temperatures. I’m surprised my jeans haven’t melted yet. The heat radiates outward in waves, spreading in my lower back, creeping up my ribs, pooling in my gut.
This is a mistake. A monumental, catastrophic mistake.
But I can’t seem to make myself step away.
“Why did you ask me to dance?” I force myself to maintain eye contact.
His hand flexes on my waist, fingers spreading wider, pulling me an inch closer.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says simply. His lips quirk in a sheepish half-smile. “I didn’t do it properly the other day.”
“Or at all,” I correct, unable to help myself.
The half-smile transforms into a full grin that makes his eyes crinkle.
“Or at all,” he agrees. “But I’m doing it now.” He twirls me away and pulls me back in. “I’m sorry.”
His expression shifts. The smile fades, replaced by a more honest vulnerability.
“Whenever someone mentions Abigail—Rhys’s mother—I overreact.” His voice settles in the hollow at the base of my throat. “The only two things I’ve come to expect when she’s brought up are pity or judgment.”
Another twirl. Each time, I end up closer to him. Our chests are almost touching now.
“I shouldn’t have assumed the worst and acted like an entitled ass,” he continues. “That comes from six years of single-dad life in a small town where everyone has opinions about how I’m raising my kid. I defaulted to being defensive the second you mentioned her name was missing from the enrollment form.”
The sincerity in his voice does something dangerous to my chest. Makes it tight and achy. Makes me want to forgive him even though I’m still mad. Even though he pissed me off so spectacularly.
I default back to sarcasm. “Very defensive-aggressive of you.”
He chuckles, a low rumble I sense more than hear. The sound vibrates through his chest into my hand on his shoulder; it spreads more warmth through my palm.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I hope you’ll forgive my misplaced Papa Bear energy.” His lilt goes back to teasing.
Why does he have to be so flipping charming?
The brute version of Ryder Evans was easy not to burn about.
But this version? This version is problematic.
As the song continues, the lead singer’s voice weaves through the slow guitar chords. Around us, other couples sway and turn, lost in their own worlds. His hand is still burning through my jeans. His thumb brushing my knuckles in that maddening, probably unconscious pattern. And his eyes haven’t left mine, holding me captive with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe, let alone talk.
