Ramon adds, tugging Sally just a little closer to him.
“Hmmph,” Iris grumbles.
I wonder for a minute if she’s jealous. Of Sally? Of Ramon? Of both? The thought of even one of those scenarios is like the prick of a mosquito on the back of the neck. Small, but unwelcome. And annoying.
I brush the thought away as though it were one of the tiny bloodsuckers. “Ready?” I ask her.
“As I’ll ever be.” The girl’s eyebrows steeple, making her look both pitiful and comical. She has the most expressive face I’ve ever seen. I have to fight not to grin.
Instead, I clasp her small hand in mine, noting that it’s neither clammy nor shaking anymore, but warm and smooth.
“Okay. Right foot to start,” I remind her. Then I hit the music and shove my phone into my back pocket. “One-two-ready-go.”
My hand settles on her waist just in time to nudge her to the left. Then left again. Then right. Then right again, an easy two-step.
Three measures into the song, she steps wide, outside the span of my left foot. She does the same on the right, as though she’s overstepping the first of the two steps and then going further on the other side just to compensate.
I drop my hand an inch lower on her side so the pinky of my right hand settles just on the swell of her hip. When she tries to step too far out, I hold her back.
“Keep your steps tight,” I correct, but pitch my voice low so I don’t embarrass her. Still, beneath my hand, I feel her body tense. “It’s okay. You’re getting it.”
“Yeah, right,” she mutters.
“You are.”
But even with the extra pressure, she’s still overstepping. “Let’s try this,” I whisper, squeezing her left hand. “Put this hand on my shoulder.”
She obeys, and I drop my left hand to her hip, mirroring my grip with the other, checking her steps this way and that. And it helps.
Left-left. Right-right. Left-left. Right-right.
“Good,” I say, smiling.
She smiles too before looking down. And it’s like a bad cartoon. Instead of going right, she goes left, knocking her knee just below mine. It feels exactly like a reflex test at the doctor’s, and I nearly trip.
No wonder Nonc went down.
“Eyes on me, Iris,” I command, righting our rhythm.
She looks up at me, wincing. “Sorry. Sorry. I just—”
“It’s okay,” I say, softening my voice. “Maybe looking down makes you think too hard. Just keep looking at me for a while.”
So she does.
And I look at her.
Up close, her skin is flawless, her complexion a smooth, warm olive. Her thick brown hair spills over her shoulders in waves. I wonder if it’s as soft as it looks, and I’m hit with the urge to touch it.
To distract myself, I lower my gaze, but it falls on her pomegranate lips. I imagine them tasting of the dark, tart juice, and my mouth waters.
I clear my throat and bring my gaze back to her eyes. She’s still looking at me, and I can’t help but wonder if she has been studying me as closely as I’m studying her.
I’m unprepared for the realization that I want her eyes on me.
Jesus Christ, Landry. Get it together. She’s beautiful and famous. Being this close to her has me a little star-struck. That’s all. I tell myself this and convince myself I believe it.
But with each step, her hips rock under my hands. They are small hips—everything about her is small—but undeniably feminine. And I have to grip them with more pressure than I normally would to keep her steps where they need to be.
So I feel everything.
Every sway and sashay. The strength in her muscles—she may be small, but she’s toned. I’d bet money she works out. A lot.
And I feel her heat.
As we move together, my hands on her hips, it’s not such a great leap to imagine—
I pull my mind from that precipice and focus on reinforcing her progress. Because, however small, this is progress. We haven’t tripped. We haven’t stalled. And no one’s broken a bone.
“Good. Good. You’re getting the hang of it.”
It’s only when she smiles up at me—a really brilliant, star-studded smile—that I realize I was already smiling at her. And this is her smiling back.
At me.
I feel the next several beats of my heart like I’ve just sucked down a Bang. Which I only do to combat jet lag. But that’s what this feels like. Dancing with Iris Adams makes me feel like I’ve crossed the ocean and landed in