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By eight-fifteen, we were sitting at his kitchen island drinking wine while music played. At eight-twenty, neither of us had moved.

Nash looked at the time. “We should probably leave.”

“Probably.”

Still, neither of us moved. I took another sip of wine at eight-twenty-three.

“You hungry?” he asked.

I considered it. “Not really.”

“Me either.”

“Cancel it,” I said.

Nash grabbed his phone and called to cancel immediately. The night changed to more wine, music, and I eventually took my heels off. Nash had loosened two buttons on his shirt. The playlist changed from whatever sophisticated grown-man shit he’d started with to R&B I actually recognized.

I gasped. “Wait.”

“What?”

“Turn this up.”

Nash looked at me. “You know this?”

I stared at him. “Don’t piss me off.”

I reached for his phone and turned the volume up myself.

I pointed at him. “Do you dance?”

“No.”

“Everybody dances.”

I slid off the stool. “Come on.”

“No.”

I grabbed his hand. “Get up.”

“Blair.”

“Get. Up.”

He finally stood and grabbed my waist. I wrapped my arms around his neck while he pulled me closer. We danced, moving around his living room barefoot while half-drunk glasses of wine sat on the counter.

I laughed when he spun me around before picking me up. “Don’t drop me.”

“I got you.”

He kept dancing with me. I don’t remember whose idea the shots were. It was probably mine.

“What is this?”

I stared suspiciously at the glass.

“Tequila.”