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And still, my thoughts loosen and wander. This is fun. Santana—this song—it makes me think of sunset. A strong rum cocktail in hand, something with a boozy edge that hits just right.
An edge. That’s what we’re missing for Nate and Reese’s wedding. We need something Southern and strong to sex up all the stuffy British things we’ve got going.
“All right, Nate, how about we try an underarm turn?” Holly, who’s been doing the salsa on her own beside us, says. “Lift your left arm. Yes! You’ve learned your right from your left. Great job. Now, Milly, you spin underneath it while keeping the beat. Yes, girl, that’s it!”
Smiling like an idiot, I complete the turn, carving a tight circle with my hips, only to find that Nate’s expression has tightened. His smile has faded, and his eyes are sharp.
“You all right?” I ask, looking down. “I didn’t step on your feet again, did I?”
“No. You did great,” he says gruffly, not meeting my eyes.
A shiver darts through me. But before I can figure out what, exactly, that shiver means—am I afraid because he’s angry? Aware because he’s alarmed?—Holly puts on Shakira’s “La Tortura,” and Nate puts his hand on my back, and just like that, I lose myself again.
This song is angsty. Sexy. A little flashy.
Brass. The chuppah—we’ll do it in this fabulous, shiny brass! The bar too, and maybe the dinner menus that will be at each place setting—our calligrapher has done menus in gold before. Wonder if she has a metallic ink that’s a shade closer to brass? It’ll be a nice play off Nate’s connection to whiskey too, as the colors match up. Brass, whiskey. Smoke. What goes better with the world’s best whiskey than cigars? We’ll get a cigar guy to come up from Charleston and hand roll cigars for guests after dinner.
Speaking of smoke, we could do a bonfire and have a s’mores station set up for late-night bites. The scent of the burning wood will waft into the tent and make everything smell cozy and delicious. And the smoker! We’ll get Samuel to set up one of Blue Mountain’s massive charcoal smokers on the lawn in front of the tent and fancy up our famous pulled pork. Maybe do a bao bun as an appetizer, the pork slathered in Emma’s red wine vinegar sauce?
I can feel it. The romance of the whole thing, equal parts classy and country. A spring breeze making the trees sigh as the guests dance and eat and drink the night away. Candles everywhere, the lighting like something out of Downton Abbey, but the smells straight from the South. The crowd buzzed on whiskey and champagne served for the toast in old-fashioned crystal coupes.
“Salsa is your thing too, huh?” Holly asks, startling me from my daydreaming.
When was the last time I daydreamed?
“Why do you say that?” I ask.
“Your shit-eating smile,” Nate says, and I feel his eyes on my face even though I’m still looking at Holly.
I bite my lip to keep from laughing too hard. The last thing I want to do is come off as flirty. “I’m getting some good ideas for the wedding is all.”
“Dancing is great for creativity,” Holly says. “My wife does her best work after a turn around the ballroom.”
“Holly’s wife is a famous painter,” I explain to Nate, finally looking at him. “We were lucky enough to purchase several of her pieces for the Farm.”
Nate nods at Holly. “Very cool.”
The song ends, and so does our lesson. His lesson. Nate’s. He lets me go, and for a second, I just stand there, stuck halfway between who I was dancing to Shakira and who I need to be right now—a wedding planner, not a woman who’s flushed and scattered and scared.
Scared because I forgot how great it feels to be around Nate.
He clears his throat and puts his hand on the back of his neck, glancing down at his toes. I tuck my hair behind my ears while I furiously try to think of something to say.
Thankfully, Holly has instructions for Nate, telling him his homework is to dance with Reese in his kitchen the way he danced with me here. Then she gives us both a quick hug and scurries to her office at the back of the studio, leaving us alone.
I make a beeline for my coat and bag. Nate doesn’t offer to help me with my coat this time, but he does pick up my bag and offer it to me.
“What the hell do you have in there?” He weighs it in his hand.
I take it from him, careful not to let our fingers touch. “A body. Well, most of one, anyway.”
“You always were a killer.”
“And you always were a”—what? A dickhead, a joy, a grump, a wonderful, horrible, soul-affirming friend?—“a guy.”
