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“She told me that if I wanted to be with you, I needed to let you know. And I agreed. So, I invited you here.” He shrugs and lowers his head to stare into my eyes. “I would really like to get to know you. And I hope you’ll go out with me again.”
I say nothing.
“That’s all I want,” he says, like he’s tying a knot on a sneaker. “We can be friends, right?”
“Friendship? That’s all you’re asking of me?”
“Yes, friends. That’s it.” He takes a deep breath. “We can be BFFs. We can braid each other’s hair.” He looks down at my feet. “Your shoes will be way too small for my feet, so sharing footwear is out.”
“That’s kind of gross anyway.” I wrinkle my nose and he laughs.
“What else do BFFs do?”
“They don’t sleep together,” I murmur.
He stops swaying. “Oh, then I’m no longer your BFF. That’s out.”
I poke his chest. “Would you stop it?” But I’m laughing and I realize that I haven’t laughed this much in quite some time. “I like hanging out with you, bestie.”
“I like hanging out with you, Wren.”
The room falls silent as the song ends.
The music starts back up, but this time it’s a jaunty little tune.
“Oh, the chicken dance! I can chicken dance,” he says. He bends his arms, sticks his elbows out, and prepares to flop like a chicken. “Are you ready?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with merriment.
I have a funny feeling that I’m not nearly ready for him. Not at all. But I kick my shoes off and prepare to dance like a chicken.
We’re both laughing and sweating when the song ends. Mick bends over and grabs my shoes, hooking them with his index and middle finger. I don’t even try to take them back, because my feet are killing me.
“You need a break,” he says, leading me toward a table.
“Maybe just for a minute.” I lean on the tall table and rest my weight on it.
“I’ll get you something to drink,” he says, his fingertips lingering at the small of my back.
“Just water,” I say.
As soon as he walks away, the redhead comes to join me. She extends her hand, but not in the normal way that people shake. She holds it out like she’s waiting for me to kiss her knuckles. I hate it when women offer half a handshake. I take her hand, turn her wrist, and then shake hands with her the normal way, all while she scowls at me.
“I’m Claire,” she says. “You are?”
“Wren.” I don’t offer more than that.
She raises one plucked brow at me. “And you’re…”
“Hot. Thirsty. Winded.” I glare back at her, since I know how to do that.
“I’m glad he called you,” she says softly. “He really likes you.”
“What makes you think that?”
“He looks at you like you’re the only woman in the room. Every girl wants to be looked at like that.”
Mick comes back to the table and hands me my drink. “Should I get one for you?” he asks Claire.
“No, thanks,” Claire says sweetly. “Will I see you at the softball game tomorrow?”
