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His devotion to me is by far the best gift a girl could ever ask for.
Especially on her birthday.
We drink – well me, Jaye, and Violet – and take bites of each other’s dishes. Tucker explains an old tale surrounding what he ordered – ropa vieja – that dazzles the table; however, it’s his insistence on feeding me bites that captures me.
And his gentle caresses to do the simplest task – such as wiping away sauce from the corner of my mouth – are the ones that keep me chained to him.
This possible relationship.
This moment.
Right after my sisters slip away to dance another round, Jaye turns to Cox and asks, “Can we dance?”
“We can do anything you want, sweetheart.”
She squeaks her excitement, springs to her feet, and waits for him to lead her to the boisterous area where women are effortlessly being spun and twirled and dipped to the live music.
My date turns his attention to me and plasters a mischievous smirk onto his face.
“No.” There’s no hesitation to shake my head. “I don’t dance! You told me I didn’t have to dance!”
“You don’t,” he suspiciously reassures. “But if you don’t then you don’t get to see the rare piece of artwork I mentioned.”
Pursing my lips to one side of my face is the only response he receives.
“Which I did.”
Excitement swiftly replaces reluctance. “You made it?! It’s one of your pieces?!”
He smoothly nods, smile spreading. “And it’s one most people don’t know about.”
“I wanna see it!”
“You gotta dance with me for that to happen.”
“There has to be another way.”
“Nope.”
“Ugh,” I grumble at the same time I reach for my Cuban cocktail, Culto a la Vida, “you’re being a…a…that person that…uses bad bargaining deals to do like…nefarious things against another person.”
“I feel like the word you want is terrorist.”
“Yes!” A small sip is taken of my beverage. “Stop being a terrorist on my birthday!”
Tucker loudly laughs, baby blue covered shoulders wildly bouncing. “Is that anyway to treat the boyfriend that threw you a surprise party?”
Whether it’s the alcohol courage or curiosity that does the investigating is unknown. “Are you my boyfriend?”
“I like the canvas.” He surprisingly proclaims and leans in a little closer. “And I like exploring it.” His eyes briefly dip down the front of my dress. “And I’m not interested in sharing it.” Tucker’s tongue steals a single, slow swipe of his lips. “Sounds like a boyfriend to me.”
“Me too,” I thoughtlessly retort.
“Then for the love of Goya, will my girlfriend please dance with me so I can show her something special?”
Rembrandt have mercy.
How can one person be so fucking perfect for me?!
“Okay…” My sheepish surrender is granted a loving kiss to the knuckles. “But be warned, damage that this so-called performance art may result in, you have to pay for, and the ER ain’t cheap.”
More laughter escapes him as he rises to his feet. “Got it.”
The second I join him in standing a fat rain drop lands on my nose. “Oh…you have got to be kidding me!?!”
“Jove – or Jupiter – the mythological god of the sky is simply weeping in gratitude,” Tucker sweetly proclaims. “Now, let’s give him more to be thankful for.”
Unable to resist his philosophical ideology – or his charming grin – I take his hand and allow him to lead us rambunctiously to where everyone seems to be having the time of their lives. Tucker swiftly curls one arm around my waist and begins to twist his hips to the beat he immediately located. Mine struggles to move with his. To follow the pattern. To keep up with all those around us I’m observing through the rain that’s trying to pick up.
Missing a step nearly results in my hitting the ground face first yet like some sort of highly trained professional from Dancing with the Stars, Tucker swoops in to not only prevent the damage but to gracefully keep us moving.
The tone I take is defeated and dishearten, “I told you, I can’t dance.”
“Try feeling the rhythm instead of forcing yourself to find it.”
“What a weird thing to say to someone.”
He laughs again and holds me tighter. “Or perhaps helpful.” Receiving a small stroke to the exposed skin on my back successfully relaxes my shoulders. “It’s just like when you’re painting or drawing or sculpting, June Bug. Forget everyone and everything else. Focus on the story you want to tell with your work.” His hips sway again prompting mine to follow suit, “And then tell it.”
I nod my acknowledgement, grip his shoulder with one hand, and momentarily shut my eyes to do the internal searching he’s commanding. I’m not sure how long they’re closed or how many steps I miss while they are. I’m even less sure that I don’t look goofy doing whatever it is my body is telling me to do or that others aren’t openly judging me. What I am sure about is how incredible it feels to be pressed against Tucker’s rock, hard frame. And how the vibrations from the music pulse through my veins. And how the combination of the two has me soaking the tiny material I’m calling my underwear for the night.
