“Arms up,” I say through gritted teeth. “Elbows out. Imagine you’re holding a beach ball against your chest. No, not a yoga ball—a beach ball. Smaller. More control.”
I step forward and physically move his arms into position, ignoring the warmth radiating from his skin. “Here. Your left hand goes here, at my shoulder blade. Your right hand holds mine.” I slot our hands together, my fingers curling around his. They’re fever-hot, like he’s been standing next to a fire. “Keep your wrist firm but not rigid. You’re guiding, not dragging.”
“I feel like a work of art being sculpted.” His voice is pitched low, almost a murmur.
“You feel like a disaster waiting to happen. Now. Basic box step. We’re doing this until you can manage it without crushing my feet.”
“I would never crush your feet.”
“You nearly amputated Marissa’s toes last night.”
“You exaggerate.”
“She was limping.”
He grins, utterly unrepentant. “Character building.”
I take a breath and step back into frame. “On my count. One, two, three. One, two, three. Step forward with your left foot?—”
He steps forward with his right foot.
Our knees collide, and I stumble. His arm tightens around my back, catching me before I can fall, and suddenly we’re much closer than proper frame allows. I can see the individual stubble on his jaw, the slight crook in his nose like it was broken once and healed wrong, and the way his pupils seem to expand when our eyes meet.
“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. “Muscle memory.”
“You don’t have any muscle memory. That’s the problem.” I push back, reestablishing distance. “Again. And this time, listen.”
We try again.
And again.
And again.
Thirty minutes later, I’m seriously considering murder.
“No, yourotherleft?—”
“Left is a social construct.”
“Left is the opposite of right. It’s not that complicated.”
“Depends on your frame of reference.” He spins when he should step, pulling me with him in a move that’s half-waltz, half-tornado. “From my perspective, right is left and left is merely a suggestion.”
“That’s not how directions work!”
“Says who?”
“Says everyone. Says the entire history of human dance. Says me, right now, telling you that if you don’t stop improvising I’m going to?—”
He dips me.
Without warning, without preparation, his arm a steel band around my waist, my back arching over empty air, my hair swinging loose from its bun to brush the floor. The world tilts. My heart slams against my ribs. And for one suspended moment, all I can do is stare up at his face, upside-down and grinning, looking absurdly pleased with himself.
“You were saying?”
I should be furious. I am furious. My hands grip his shoulders hard enough to wrinkle his expensive jacket, and my legs are scrambling for purchase even though his hold is infuriatingly confident.
“Put. Me. Down.”
