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“No,” I say with a chuckle. “That bump on your head.”
“Oh, right.”
“I’m sorry again about that.”
“Don’t be. It was no one’s fault.”
“Tell me,” I say, leaning close enough I could press a kiss to that bump. “When was the last time you danced?”
“Hmmm,” she murmurs, the vibration thrumming through the fabric of her dress under my fingers. It’s a minute before she answers, as if it’s been so long, she can’t remember. “Oh,” she exclaims, looking up at me with a smile. “It was Christmas Eve, at my best friend’s wedding.”
“Anyone good?”
The smallest lift of her shoulder.
“Just the groom’s cousin. He wasn’t my date or anything. I was the maid of honor, but I went alone.”
Interesting.
“And this groom’s cousin?”
She dismisses my question out of hand. “He was nice enough, but… not my type.”
“Why’s that?”
“Well, to start, he lived in the middle of nowhere, Vermont. And I’m a city girl, through and through. Born and raised in Brooklyn.”
“I find it hard to believe location is your primary criteria for a man. There are a thousand men within a ten-block radius who’d kill for a date with you.”
She looks up at me through thick lashes. “Including you?”
“Especially me.”
Her eyes widen and she sucks in a breath through pale pink lips I’ll be dreaming about for days, and a swell of satisfaction runs through my body. If she’s affected by me even a tenth of the way she’s wrapping me around her little finger without even trying, there’s a chance this blind date could be my last.
The first notes of the song break the silence and shatter the moment between us like an unwelcome alarm clock snapping me from a pleasant dream.
Our taskmaster of an instructor counts us off and we start to dance, moving in time with the music around the empty room, the skirt of Cassie’s black dress swirling around my legs.
“What about you?” she asks, drawing my concentration from the steps. “When was the last time you danced?”
“At my brother’s wedding in November. I was the best man.”
“Anyone good?”
“Yes.”
Cassie stumbles and loses the step. We stop and she draws back, her shoulders straightening. “Who?”
“The bride and my grandmother.”
“Oh.”
Those two little letters, and the way they tripped off her tongue, followed by a relieved sigh, tell me everything I need to know. And send a jolt of adrenaline through me that lands suspiciously close to my heart.
Our instructor, with a tight bun at the back of her head, steps over and adjusts us, pressing us closer together. As if I need any more invitation, every inch of my body is intensely attuned to her nestled against me.
“The waltz is a gliding dance. It is romantic. You must feel each other, be fully aware of your partner from head to toe.”
