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“I didn’t know y’all were prudes,” Holly teases.
“Only when I’m on the job,” I tease back, laughing.
“Oh! There! Look, you just moved your hips, Milly. That’s exactly what I’m talking about—loosen up. Let the rhythm get you! Speaking of, let me get a little Gloria Estefan going here.” Holly hustles over to her phone, which is connected to the speaker system with a red cable (she makes no secret of her favorite color).
Nate draws to a sudden stop. “I love Gloria.”
“Do you really?” Holly grins. “She’s one of the all-time greats.”
My heart skips a beat. Nate loves Latin music. Like, loves it, thanks to a trip to Spain he won in high school for being a brainiac. He’s obsessed with everyone from Santana to Shakira to Enrique Iglesias. He got me into it too, the two of us belting out Spanish in my kitchen (his good, mine terrible) while we’d make dinner.
I haven’t been able to listen to it since.
Gloria comes on, and my heart stops working altogether. Nate is never one to lose himself to a beat. Ever. But when it comes to Ms. Estefan, all bets are off.
Our eyes meet, and his flash. A dare. A delight.
How did this happen again? Me doing the foxtrot with Nate Kingsley to “Rhythm is Gonna Get You”?
But it’s too late to tuck tail and run now, so I let Nate lead me in a bastardized version of the dance we’ve been practicing that’s part foxtrot, part salsa. Nate is not graceful by any means, but the song is just what he needs to loosen up. He moves in time to the beat, and at one point he even closes his eyes. His lips just barely move, and I know he’s mouthing the words, nailing every single one.
It’s fucking adorable.
“What is this?” Holly gasps, smiling at Nate. “You weren’t kidding when you said you love Gloria. Milly, maybe you should think about hiring a Miami Sound Machine cover band for this wedding. If such a thing exists?”
“Reese would never spring for that,” Nate says, opening his eyes and looking at me. “For the rehearsal dinner, maybe. But she’s more of a Dean Martin kinda girl. Well, him and Drake.”
“Noted,” I reply. “I’ll look into something for Friday night if you’d like? There’s a local guitarist who does some beautiful flamenco work.”
Nate shrugs. “Nah. I don’t want to make a big deal out of the rehearsal dinner. This is Reese’s weekend, so . . .”
It’s your weekend too.
But that’s not my place, so I keep my mouth shut and let Nate lead me around the studio. He steps up, wiggles his hips, steps back, shimmies his shoulders. I’m trying very hard to keep a straight face—like I said, I’m on the job—but Nate isn’t making it easy.
He steps and shimmies and sings. He doesn’t care what he looks like. Doesn’t care who sees him jumping around like an overexcited (and oversized) hobbit. He’s genuinely, joyfully inhabiting his own skin, and his reckless abandon is infectious. Seeing such a grumpy, growly guy light up this way is just—
Ugh, it’s everything, and I can’t fight this smile anymore.
I give in. I tell myself it’s just for this song, and I sway my hips in a tighter, faster arc. I get lost in Gloria on a Tuesday morning at ten o’clock even though I have a million and a half other things to do. It’s silly. Self-indulgent. But as I move, I feel my mind start to pry off the checklist of never-ending tasks inside my head. My thoughts float, and a sensation of lightness comes over me.
“Gloria’s working her magic,” Nate murmurs.
I meet his eyes and arch a brow. “How so?”
“You haven’t stepped on my toes once while she’s been on.”
“That’s because you’re doing an excellent job of leading,” Holly interjects. “Nate, you’re a natural.”
“Am I?” he asks, but he’s grinning.
The thing is, he’s been excellent. He made what could’ve been an incredibly awkward experience fun. He saw my silent plea for help, and he stepped up to the plate.
I should leave—I have to leave—but Holly puts on “Oye Como Va” by Santana next. Nate doesn’t miss a beat. He firms his grip on me, the hand on my shoulder blade moving to the small of my back. Holly moves us through the steps of a salsa, which Nate miraculously gets on the first try. Somehow I get it too, laughing as my feet seem to move on their own, separate from my body but still very much a part of it.
The feeling of lightness increases, making me giddy. I’m starting to sweat a little. Somewhere in the back of my mind, it registers that the balls of my feet hurt. These boots may have been made for walking, but they’re not so great for dancing thanks to a three-and-a-half-inch heel and croc-embossed leather that is the opposite of supple.
