Page 119 of Josephine and Clay

She looks away, but not before I catch another flush. A tiny, stupid burst of victory hits me anyway.

Apparently, I needed that more than I realized.

“I’m taking them,” I say.

“Properly?”

“Mostly.”

“Clay.”

There it is again. My name in her mouth, precise and irritated and somehow enough to drag me back into my own skin.

“I’m not trying to make it worse,” I admit.

Her expression settles. “But?”

“But I hate sitting still.”

“I know.”

I offer her a one-shouldered shrug. “You don’t know.”

“I know enough.”

That should bother me. It doesn’t.

I grin, instantly shifting the mood. “Dance with me.”

Her eyes drop to my cast. Then back up. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Probably.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Barely is still technically.”

“No.”

“Come on.”

She shakes her head. “No.”

“You scared?”

Her brows rise. “Of you?”

“Of dancing badly.”

“I don’t dance badly.”

“Prove it.”

She studies me, and I can see the war happen. Sense versus impulse. Control versus whatever the hell pulls us together every time we’re within ten feet.

Then she sets her lemonade down. “One minute.”

I smile. “That was easy.”