he knows all too well.
“But it’ll get me drunk. And we are free of kids tonight. So I say go big or go home.” Penelope takes a swig, sputtering as the drink hits her throat.
Her husband takes the flask, knocks one back, and then says, “This tastes like battery acid.”
Bowen tries his luck next, always the manly man of the bunch.
Lily shakes her head, indicating a pass, and Bowen goes to hand it to me.
“Eh … I think I’ll hold off.” I’m not sure I’m ready for something that hard … especially in front of the kids dancing to One Direction right now.
“Fine. Let’s go dance!” Penelope throws up her arms, and everyone follows their Queen Bee.
She’s the morale of the group, the one who incites happiness and fun. As a mom to three boys, it amazes me how she does it. I feel like I would be hiding in a closet somewhere, having a breakdown.
The eight of us dance to Stevie Wonder, Tim McGraw, The Beatles, Rihanna, and a whole mess of other music. I have to admit, it’s pretty fun. There is no judgment or lingering glances across the dance floor. There is no dark lighting or potent mixed drinks. No sleazy guys trying to pick you up.
Just some good old-fashioned fun at the town hall.
“We Danced” by Brad Paisley comes on, that soft, haunting melody spurring lovers to find each other’s arms. I’m not sure how it happens, I’m fairly certain Presley practically shoves me from behind so that I tumble into Fletcher’s arms. But … here I am, the youngest Nash brother holding me as a slow dance starts up.
Amusement and something close to polite annoyance paints his face. “I guess I should ask you to dance?”
I swear, my face is ten shades of red at this moment. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean … I think someone pushed me.”
He seems to weigh this answer, and I can almost see the war playing out in his head. Should he really ask me to dance? Or would it just be too much of a hassle? Would it be rude if he walked off? Or does our holding each other during a love song register far more consequences?
Finally, the lines of his face settle in an answer. “All the same, you’re here. We’re both partnerless. Dance with me.”
It’s not a question, and against the logic trying to slap me in the face, I relent wordlessly. Fletcher’s long, ropey arms hook around my waist, settling at the appropriate height on my back … but the touch still makes every pore tingle. He’s taller than I am, even with my sky-high heels on. And the solid mass of his quintessential male figure reminds me, as I press my breasts and belly to his torso, that it’s been a long while since I’ve been to bed with anyone.
Then, right there on that packed hardwood floor, we begin to sway. I get a little lost in the lyrics, my mind swept up in how much this man really did fall in love at first sight with this woman. The sappy, lovesick damsel in me wishes that any of my relationships had been so hopelessly romantic.
Because that’s what I am, a hopeless romantic. No matter how many times it scorns me, I will always believe in love. Even if I’m terrified of it, I’ll never stop imagining that everlasting, all-consuming, genuine love can happen. And the songs about it only reinforce my rose-tinted view of it.
Fletcher’s breath blows hot near my temple, and I try to contain the shudder that runs through me. My arms clasp around the back of his neck, and I can’t help when my fingers trail over the soft hairs at the nape of his skull.
“So, we talked about my emotional demons last time I saw you. How about we cover yours this time?” He chuckles in my ear, his body and hands far too close to keep my brain thinking rational thoughts.
I’m almost glad that we’re slow dancing, our cheeks almost pressing together. It means he can’t see my face, or read my eyes in that weird, almost searching way he does.
“What do you want to know?” My voice has an edge of warning to it, almost as if I’m telling him not to test his luck.
Fletcher makes a humming noise, like he’s thinking. “Why aren’t you dating men right now?”
The phrase he uses has a small smile spreading over my face, remembering our non-date at the coffee shop.