I pull her beside me. “Your dance is over, Gaines.”
“Says who?”
“Me.”
Gaines watches me with unbridled anger, with his hands balled at his sides. I doubt he’ll actually throw a punch—he’s all bluster and no balls—but, if he decides to get froggy, I’ll leap.
Mira puts a hand on her hip. “You got a little grabby there, Derrick.”
“Adler’s always there to be the hero.” He looks at the two of us in disgust. “Fucking prick.”
“You should take lessons,” she says. “Women don’t like men who just grab their asses, fuckhead.”
“You got a mouth on you?—”
“And if you want to go home with all of your teeth in yours, I’d get the hell out of here before that changes,” I say, moving Mira to the side at the small chance that this asshole swings at me.
He gives us a final glare before muddying his way through the crowd like a temperamental toddler.
“So …” Mira says, waiting until I face her to continue. “Now what?”
Her eyes sparkle beneath the string lights above our heads. The playful grin on her lips is a bit softer, as if it’s just for me. And my ribs throb from trying to keep my heart contained behind them.
I’ve just fucked myself.
“Are you going to dance with me or what?” she asks. “You can’t cut in and then leave me hanging in front of everyone.”
Taking a deep breath, I grin. “Come here.”
Her chest rises as she reaches me, her arms stretching over my shoulders. I breathe her in as I wrap my arms around her waist and draw her nearer.
I can barely hear myself think over the blood rushing through my eardrums. Mira hasn’t been in my arms for years, and I don’t know why I thought it was a good decision to let it happen tonight. Despite knowing that it’ll be a mindfuck for the ages, I can’t help but notice how perfectly we fit together.
Might as well enjoy it.
“How’s Pigasso?” she asks.
I laugh. “You wanna talk about the pig now?”
“No. But I figured it could break the ice.”
“There’s no ice between us, Mira.”
“It doesn’t always feel that way.” She smiles. “It felt pretty icy when I pulled up, and Pigasso was rooting around in Cathy’s garden.”
I laugh again, committing the feel of her against me to memory.
“What?” she asks, laughing, too. She pulls her face back to search my face. “What are you laughing at?”
“I needed another ten beers for this.”
She rolls her eyes, then rests her head against my chest. “It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve danced together.”
That’s not what I meant.I take a deep breath. “No. The first time was in Betsy Barn to a Bryan Adams song.”
I feel her smile against me. “That’s right. Unless you count square-dancing in gym class in the sixth grade, which was clearly a good use of our time. I’ve used that skill so many times over the years.”
Our bodies sway slowly to the music. An internal war rages inside me, with one half of my brain trying to build a wall around this experience so it doesn’t affect the rest of my life. The other half screams at me to catalog every feel, scent, and sound so it can replay it a million times.
