“Terry!” she scolded between giggles.
Terry gave me a wink. “Don’t mind her. My wife has no alcohol tolerance, so I’m the designated babysitter tonight. Y’all enjoy yourselves—we’re not going anywhere.”
“Well, at least she’s having a good time,” I said, smiling. “Thank you.”
Logan reached for my hand. His palm was warm and steady as he helped me off the stool and guided us toward the edge of the dance floor.
“What was that about?” he asked, glancing back at the bar.
“I asked if he’d watch my purse. Then he told me about his wife’s drinking habits. Honestly, they’re adorable.”
The instructor took her place again, mic readjusted, voice loud and energized.
“We’re kicking off this next set with a classic!” she shouted over the noise. “If y’all have done any dancing before, you’ll know this one!”
She pointed at the band, and a familiar beat kicked in.
The instructor turned away from us, giving us a view of her back as she counted the steps slowly, walking us through the motions.
I tried to follow, watching her feet, trying to anticipate the turns and pivots—but I kept missing the beat, stumbling half a second too late.
When I looked up at Logan, he was moving effortlessly, like his body already knew the dance.
“What the hell?” I hissed through my teeth.
He grinned. “This is one of the two I actually remember. I got you.”
We practiced a few more rounds as she walked the group through it. Despite the simplicity of the routine, I had no rhythm to speak of and kept tripping over myself.
But Logan, who was true to his word, stayed by my side. Patient. Steady. Every time I got off beat, I watched his feet, let my movements mirror his. Eventually, I started to get the hang of it.
A thrill buzzed through me. This was fun. Messy, silly, adrenaline-filled fun. And yet, by the end of the first song, I was completely breathless.
“All right!” the instructor called out, clapping her hands. “Now we’re moving on to song number two. Grab your partner and get ready!”
“Partner?” I asked, turning to Logan with wide eyes. Panic flickered in my chest. How the hell was I supposed to dance with a partner when I couldn’t even keep up on my own?
Logan didn’t hesitate. He reached out and gently gripped my biceps, his touch grounding me in a way that stole my breath. Heat seeped through his fingers, spreading under my skin like an electric current. I glanced down at the spot where he touched me, then back up into his eyes.
“You’ve got this, Ace,” he said, his voice consistent and sure. “And you’ve got a pretty decent partner too. Just let me lead.”
The way he said that—calm, confident, a little cocky—made the breath catch in my throat. There was something undeniably sexy about a man taking charge in a way that felt endearing and only for me.
I nodded slowly, swallowing hard as the tension in my body loosened, melting under his touch.
The instructor shouted over the music, riling up the crowd with infectious energy. People hollered and clapped around us, and I threw my hands up too, cheering, letting myself get swept away. This place, this moment, tethered me to the present. For the first time in weeks, I felt grounded… alive.
Onstage, the instructor and her partner began to walk us through the movements. Logan’s hand slipped to the small of my back, unwavering and confident, and he pulled me closer. The scent of his woodsy cologne wrapped around me, heady and warm, and when he looked down and smiled, it wasn’t just a smile. It was a slow, knowing, melt-me-from-the-inside-out kind of smile.
Each step, each turn—I followed his lead. And he talked me through it all in a voice that was equal parts encouragement and temptation.
“Just like that.”
“You’ve got it.”
“Hold on tight, Ace.”
That last one caught me off guard before he spun me.
