“What about something by Taylor Swift?”
“Josh only likes early Taylor Swift. Debut album andFearless. Maybe a song or two fromSpeak Now.”
“You sure know her discography well.” Playfulness sneaks into my voice.
Eitan’s eyes narrow at me. “I have a younger sister,” he says, for Saul’s benefit.
I can’t help but tease him, knowing he has at least three Taylor Swift albums in his car. “And she forced you to listen to every album?—”
Eitan covers my mouth with a broad, warm hand. The feel of his palm on my lips is overwhelming. Literally. My body temperature skyrockets. Hot flashes have the best timing.
“What about Fleetwood Mac?” Eitan calls out to Saul. “‘Landslide’ is one of Josh’s favorite songs.” His hand falls away from my mouth, though the imprint of it makes no sign of fading.
“That song is depressing,” I say.
“Idea!” Saul holds up a finger. “If you two stop arguing long enough to actually dance with each other, you might find this decision easier.”
“He’s not wrong,” Eitan says softly, before holding out a hand. An invitation.
Why do I keep finding myself on the other side of Eitan’s outstretched palm? “I’m not good at dancing,” I say.
“No one is watching,” he whispers. “Besides Saul Diamantis, Tastemaker.”
“Why don’t we try a happier Fleetwood Mac song,” Saul offers from the booth. “Like ‘Dreams’?”
Swanky drums fill the room with liquid sound. Stevie Nix’s voice croons. Instead of listening to “Dreams”with Eitan in our Topanga Canyon ranch, I get to listen to it in a Northbrook doctor’s office while we pick out a romantic first dance song for someone else.
The Universe is laughing at me.
“We’re not getting any younger.” Eitan wiggles his hand, still outstretched.
“Dance!” Saul says, a manic rhythm master in his DJ tower of power. I wouldn’t be surprised if he broke out a tambourine.
I bite my lip, knowing I’ll regret it.
I take Eitan’s hand anyway.
He reels me in, one hand on my waist and the other holding my hand to the side. He sways me in time with the song’s gentle rocking. The space between us is charged, sparks sputtering in and out with every brush of our clothes.
“Ready?” Eitan whispers.
“Ready for what?” I ask, breathless.
Eitan just smiles, and raises the hand holding mine. His other arm crosses my body, twisting me into a twirl.
We recenter, face to face, centimeters apart, just in time to hear the chorus. The song creates a sonic meadow. We are surrounded by vibrant wildflowers made of electric piano keys, guitar strums, and velvety vocals.
“You’re good at this,” I whisper, alarmed.
He shrugs, the gesture almost lost among his movements as he leads us. “I’ve taken some lessons.”
I’ve tried dancing with a partner before, and this is more than just lessons. This is a natural grace. An instinct for advance and restraint.
Eitan shifts us, his hands moving like water everywhere at once. Swaying us, stepping us across the small dance floor. The movement is hypnotic, our bodies syncing into their own language. His eyes flit over my face, from my cheeks to my lips.Him, my touch-starved body hums. I have no choice but to get lost in it. The here, the now. Close enough to lean in and kiss him, if I were brave enough.
“You’re not too bad yourself,” Eitan murmurs.
Friends, a distant voice tries to remind me. I can barely hear it. All the places where we touch—hands, waist, chest—create an electric circuit. A current. One slip and I’ll be electrocuted.
