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“It’s not much,” he says. I swear I see a light pink color decorate his cheeks. “But I wanted you to open something on your birthday.”
I reach over, gently prying one hand off the steering wheel and threading my fingers through his. Finn offers me another one of his show stopping smiles and presses his lips to the back of my hand as the road turns to gravel. My stomach somersaults when I notice just how far out from the city we are.
“Where are we going?”
Finn places his elbow on the console and lowers his hand, but his fingers never let go. “I hope you like dancing.”
It’s the only answer he gives me before we pull down a long dirt road. The bare trees climb up toward the gray sky, their leaves rustling and dry on the ground where they wait to be absorbed into the earth.
I look through the trees and watch the gentle sway of the branches when we pass them.
At the end of the road, a large steel building rests nestled between the trees, with a large sign hanging from a wooden post stuck in the ground. The sign is void of any lettering, which would make me nervous. I’m in too deep now–got too comfortable around Finn. If he did have Ted Bundy vibes, this would have been the perfect ruse. Spend two days getting me to trust him just to murder me out in the middle of the woods.
All of thatwouldworry me if I hadn’t noticed the giant handlebar mustache painted on the sign. It wouldn’t make a very good place to kill a woman. It would be too comical.
“The Handlebar Ranch,” he says, and I realize it makes perfect sense.
With the mustache and all.
Finn puts the car in park and turns toward me. “It wasn’t necessarily on your bucket list, but I signed us up for swing dancing lessons. I was also told that after six, they start up themechanical bull they rented. They being whoever is hosting this event. I don’t know these people, but I figured–” He cuts himself off as he reaches behind my seat to the back of his car, grabbing his cowboy hat and placing it firmly on his head. I watch the flex of his biceps where his T-shirt ends, and draw my eyes back up to his face. “I figured it would be a lot nicer to look like this in front of people we don’t know. I have a couple of flannels in the back, too. So, we can really dress the part.”
I’m staring at him, my heart beating steadily in my chest as I watch this purple-haired cowboy with tattoos and an aversion to country music look at me with nothing but hope in his eyes.
And if I’m honest, he’s gone above and beyond.
“You said you have multiple flannels?” I ask, and Finn nods. “Then I better ditch the sweater and get into character.”
Finn chuckles, grabbing the shirts from the floor of the backseat and handing me a dark blue and white plaid flannel. He unbuckles his seatbelt and shrugs his own green and brown flannel over his shoulders, making quick work of the buttons and bouncing his knee nervously.
There are plenty of cars in the small parking lot around the ranch, and my stomach flutters with nerves. At least we won’t know anyone in the bar. I’ve never tried to swing dance before, so I’m assuming I’ll be terrible. It’s only fair.
Making sure to pull my tank top down, I drag my dark green sweater over my head and replace it with the shirt Finn gave me. It’s a bit big, so I give up on the buttons and tie the thing just above the high-waisted jeans I’m wearing, cowboy boots from the thrift store firmly attached to my feet.
When I look up at Griffin, he’s staring at me, his eyes glancing down toward the lower cut of my tank top before meeting my eyes again.
It’s like his gaze shoots fire on my skin wherever it lands, and I find that it’s suddenly more difficult to breathe. The caris entirely too small. There’s not enough oxygen, and for some reason, it feels like August instead of December.
I’m thinking about the kiss again.
“Well,” I say, trying to break the tension. “We’d better get inside.”
Finn shakes his head, his grin returning before he rushes out of the car and sprints to my side to open my door. As soon as my boots hit the dirt, I grab his hand in mine and we walk into The Handlebar Ranch together.
Griffin Peterson is terrible at swing dancing.
Wes, the instructor they brought in keeps coming by to check on us. I swear the man laughs every time he listens to my dance partner firmly insisting that we are going to do some insane dip that I definitely don’t feel safe trying.
Not when Finn can’t even move his feet in the right direction.
Wes lingers a few feet away, his brown eyes observant, an amused smile threatening to break across his face and reveal all the hilarious judgment he’s passing on both of us.
“Listen, Finn. When we are facing one another, the left is going to be on the same side.” Even with his terrible dancing, I can’t help but laugh at his hilarious jokes, his determination, and the way he doesn’t seem to care what the entire class seems to think of him.
Not that it’s difficult to ignore the opinions of people who decorated the venue with various pieces of taxidermy dressed like Santa.
“I’m hearing what you’re saying,” he says, as he takes a step back, clasping my hands firmly before bringing our arms up and out as we move forward together. “But I’m just not fully understanding. Now spin, Ellie. We gotta make this look good.”
I laugh as one of his arms rises above my head, his hand gently guiding me to turn until I’m standing with my back firmly against his chest. His arms are still holding me there, and while the music around us continues, Griffin does not.
