Page 335 of Call Me Baby 2: Side B

claiming my empty palm.

He’s gonna make me dance. Isn’t he?

Shit. He’s gonna make me fucking dance.

I shake my head. “Andrew, no way.”

He walks me backward with a devious grin, his other palm pressed against his chest. “Miss Allison Taylor, as your trusted unofficial advisor, I believe it’s only in your best interest to dance with me.”

A laugh rips up my throat with the roar of the band.

On stage, the singer lunges to the front,

snatching the chrome mic stand

and burying himself into the mic,

spilling the opening line.

Then—with a flick of his wrist—Andrew spins me fast at the edge of the floor and pulls me back tight against his chest on a downbeat, looking down at me with a cocky smile.

I try fighting back my own,

shaking my head.

“I’m gonna kill you.”

“Yeah, yeah. After the bridge,” he says.

Then he reels me into a swing dance, one that floods my cheeks with a helpless heat.

Every spin is laced with late-night adrenaline, every swing is reckless escape, every second of his chest warm against my back is another second I’m regretting our contract.

All the while,

he sings as if he can’t help it,

his voice a whiskey-warm rasp on my skin,

his hand staying at my waist,

his mouth staying near my ear,

and his hips doing subtle, provocative things, low-and-slow drags with the beat.

Nothing noticeable if my body wasn’t in his hands, pressed against him.

I look back at him fast ‘cause⁠—

who the fuck taught him that?

And when the chorus peaks,

he raises his arm with lazy swagger,

guiding me to spin under it,

dropping me into a low dip,