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“Holy shit. You do Irish dancing?” Scarlett asks, her eyes wide and sparkly.

“I did. Twenty-two years ago.” My mom insisted that me, Ronan, and Fallon all did some kind of dancing as kids. For balance and flexibility, she said. Mostly, I think she wanted us to have something to burn off some energy, since none of us were interested in team sports. Fallon and I did Irish dancing. Ronan did ballroom. He’s the only one of us who stuck it out past thirteen.

“Well, now we have to see it. Go on, Mr. Silver Medal.”

Christ almighty. Piper looks dead serious. “I can’t Irish dance in the middle of a bar to … Is that Dolly Parton?”

“It is Dolly,” Scarlett confirms with a melodic laugh. “And, technically, Grizzly’s calls itself a tavern. Please? I want to see.”

Shit. I don’t think I could say no to her if I tried.

“And if you show us yours, I bet Scarlett will show you hers,” Piper says, wiggling her eyebrows and then stopping suddenly. “To be clear, I mean her line dancing.”

Now, that I want to see, if only because Scarlett letting her hair down is the whole reason we’re here, and dancing in a bar—tavern—is the epitome of letting your hair down.

“I’m probably really fucking rusty,” I warn them, passing my Coke to Scarlett. I can’t deny I’m regretting my choice not to get a beer.

My shoes are less than ideal, but I test the balls of my feet for slipperiness and tap my toes on the hardwood a couple of times to the beat. Of Dolly Parton singing “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer”, naturally. And then I take a deep breath, try and remember the years of lessons drummed into me, and … dance.

I forget all about the room full of people who might see, and focus solely on Scarlett. Which, admittedly, is becoming second nature. Her smile is electric, and her eyes are brighter than anything has a right to be. The absolute joy she’s radiating makes any shred of embarrassment disappear. I actually start to enjoy myself. My feet remember the steps, even if my brain doesn’t. But I’m a lot less fit than I was at eleven, and by the time the song draws to a close and I touch down on the floorboards for the last time, I’m almost out of breath.

Then Scarlett laughs and throws her arms around me, stealing what little I have left.

“Oh shit,” she says, pulling back and licking the rim of her Red Bull before it bubbles up and all over her hand. “That was incredible, Kill. You’re incredible.”

“That was pretty good,” Piper agrees.

“It was surprisingly easy to pick back up. Like riding a bike, I guess.” I shrug and drain my Coke before reaching over Scarlett to set the empty bottle at the end of the bar. She follows suit with her can, then clasps my hand and tugs me toward the dance floor.

“Come on. It’s time to show you how we do things.”

Someone calls Piper’s name, and she disappears into the throng. Thankfully, Scarlett stops at the back of the crowd. I’m sandwiched between her and a guy I vaguely recognize from behind the counter at Slice o’ Pines. He looks like he’s around one drink away from keeling over, which is a good excuse to sidle closer to Scarlett. It helps me hear the dance as she calls out the steps, too. It’s just sensible to stick to her side.

I miss every step, but, in my defense, I’m not really trying to hit them. I’m more focused on watching Scarlett dance. Every swing of her hips, every whip of her hair as she spins or bounces, has my heart racing. She moves so naturally to the music.

Everyone claps as the song finishes, and Scarlett turns to me, shaking out her hair. “I’m a little rusty too.” If I wasn’t so close, I wouldn’t be able to hear over the crowd.

“Rusty? Are you kidding? You’re amazing.”

She laughs, shrugging bashfully. “Like riding a bike, I guess,” she says, echoing my earlier words.

The applause dies down and a slow song starts blaring through the speakers. I frown. “How do you line dance to something this slow?”

“There are slower line dances,” Scarlett tells me, drawing her lip between her teeth. “But this is just a regular old slow dance.”

Sure enough, when I look out at the floor, everyone has partnered up to sway to the music.

The sensible thing to do here would be to ask Scarlett if she wants another drink and head back to the bar. But standing so close to her, watching her dance … It’s all making me feel a little reckless.

“Good news,” I say, and she quirks a brow. “I know this one.” I hold out my hand, surprised by how steady it is, and Scarlett eyes it for a second before drawing in a deep breath and taking it.

I gently tug her into me until our bodies are barely an inch apart, and a soft “oh” falls from her lips. I drop my hands to her hips. “Is this okay?”

Scarlett nods, then steps somehow closer to me and lifts her hands around my neck. She feels so fucking good against me. Like this is exactly where she’s supposed to be.

I can’t stop myself from sliding my fingers back, holding her in my arms. I’m dangerously close to touching her ass, but Scarlett must like how I’m holding her, because she smiles and lays her head on my chest. I breathe her in; I haven’t touched a drop of alcohol tonight, but I swear I’m drunk on sheer proximity to her.

We’re on the edge of the crowd, in our own little world, and Scarlett lifts her chin to look up at me. Her eyes are dark, and her lips are so fucking close to mine. It would take no effort at all to bend my head ever so slightly, to press my lips to hers like she did to mine. And I want to. I want to so badly, it aches, but I don’t want to do anything without Scarlett making it crystal clear that she wants it. And dancing on a sticky floor in a country bar is hardly the place for it.