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“What if I’m horrible at it?” I whisper.
His hand tightens on mine. “What if you’re not?”
I blink up at him.
What if I’m not?
I’d never thought of it like that before. I always just let fear take over.
“Promise me you won’t laugh if I step on your feet, or tr
ip and take us both down?”
With a gentle tug, Drake pulls me to the corner of the room. We’re out of the way of the other dancers, but still on the wooden floor.
“I would never laugh at you,” he says, wrapping me in his arms. “I’ve got you, Abigail. Trust me.”
Drake holds me close, and I stare hopelessly into his dark brown eyes before my focus dips to his mouth. Those sweet lips have coaxed me into doing something I swore I wouldn’t do tonight no matter how much alcohol I had in my system, and I can’t help but wonder what else they could convince me to try.
With his arm snug around my back, Drake leans in close. “You’re doing wonderfully.”
My skin flushes, and in a moment of boldness, I press my body against his. “It’s all you.”
“Nah. It’s us. You fit perfectly in my arms.”
His words cause a shiver to race down my spine, and when I find the courage to look up again, I find him watching me intently. We’re so close that all I’d have to do is lift up on my toes and our lips would touch. I wonder how soft his would be against mine, or traveling across the base of my neck and down—
“Abigail.”
“Yes?” I breathe, dropping my eyes to his chest.
“You can’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
Drake puts a finger under my chin and tilts my face toward his. “Like you want to kiss me as bad as I want to kiss you.”
I swallow past the growing lump in my throat—or maybe that’s my stomach; I’m really not sure. I do know that if he doesn’t kiss me soon, I might kiss him.
“What’s stopping you?”
His smile grows as he hauls me in close. Drake is much taller than I am, and I’m forced to lift onto my toes.
“You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into,” he whispers.
“I could say the same to you.”
Chapter 1
One month later
Abby
“How’re you feeling this morning, Mrs. Trager?”
The eighty-one-year-old woman grunts and moans as she sits up in bed, but waves me off when I reach out to help her. “I’m good as gold. I don’t know why the doc made me stay the night. My third husband had his gall bladder removed and went home the same day.”
I open my mouth to respond when the door swings open, bumping into the wall behind it.
