Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 61953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61953 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 310(@200wpm)___ 248(@250wpm)___ 207(@300wpm)
“Wasn’t sure you were actually going to dance,” I said.
“And miss this?”
“Obviously, it would have been a huge loss for you.”
He laughed softly. “I suppose it would have.”
He spun me around. I fumbled through the steps and laughed as I nearly crashed back into him.
“A little warning would have been nice.”
“Not when I get that smile,” he said and then did it again.
My smile was wide as he moved me effortlessly through the steps. I’d never ballroom danced in my life, but he clearly knew what he was doing, and his lead was easy to follow once I let myself relax.
“Where did you learn how to dance like this?” I asked once I was back in his arms again, swaying to the music, my arms around his neck.
“Ah, Junior League,” he said with a grimace. “My sister was a debutante, and I took lots of dance lessons.”
I could barely contain my laugh. “Junior League is absurd.”
He nodded. “Tell me about it. I was the one who suffered through it.”
“It puts the patriarchy on a pedestal. The entire reason they started was for a woman to enter society and, like, put their virginity on display.”
“I’m not defending them. My sister was super into it, but most people like them now to wear the fancy dress and hang out with their friends.”
I sighed. That sounded right. No one wanted to be uncomfortable and question why things were the way they were. It was easier to just fit into society than to buck against it. I’d learned that time and time again.
“I will say that the dancing comes in handy at times like this,” he said, putting the focus on the way his hand slid across my stomach as he twisted me in place.
He spun me back in and raised an eyebrow, as if to say, See?
I leaned into him, running one hand down the front of his immaculately cut suit. “I learned very different dance moves.” I waggled my eyebrows. “There were a lot more window and wall and a lot less appropriate distances.”
He actually snorted at that and tugged me in closer. “Is this better?”
My breath caught on the yes I wanted to utter.
But instead, I was struck by how handsome he was. I had to tilt my head back to admire his lush lips and the high peaks of his cheekbones and the little dimples that appeared in his cheeks. From here, I could see the flecks of gold in his irises and the scar above his eyebrow. A tiny imperfection on the otherwise perfect face. Somehow, it made me like him even more.
I reached up and brushed a finger against it. “How did you get this?”
His hand captured mine, lacing our fingers together. “I’ll trade you my secret for one of your own.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Oh, is it a secret?”
“Maybe.”
“What would you like in return?” I asked baldly, letting my eyes linger on his lips.
He was stopped from answering by the end of the song. He slowly lowered me into an impressive dip, my long hair trailing behind me on the hardwood floor. Our eyes locked, and for a second, I could imagine what it would be like to have his lips on mine. To see exactly where this song and dance were leading.
Then, he righted me as effortlessly as the dip had started, and we broke apart as the music shifted into a rendition of the Electric Slide.
He slid a hand through his hair, glancing sideways, as if debating on what to do. “It’s a little…crowded,” he finally said. “Do you want to go for a walk?”
I nodded, finally realizing how many people were staring at us. “Yes.”
He grabbed my hand again, and then we were avoiding the bridal party and stepping through a side door, out into the cool spring evening air. Away from the wedding, I felt free. No more eyes on us. Just me and him and a clear night sky.
He hadn’t released my hand, and we strolled down the stone path that led out to the vineyards.
“Are you going to tell me about your scar? Since it’s such a big secret,” I teased.
He ran a finger over it. “I suppose it’s not much of a secret,” he admitted. “Usually, when people ask about it, I make up some outrageous story. Like I was mauled by a bear or got it while saving someone’s life.”
I laughed. “And the real story is?”
“I flipped my kayak when I was in middle school and hit a rock. I had to get a ton of stitches. Bled like a bitch. Had the worst fear of water for years after that.”
“I like the real story,” I said, replacing his finger with my own. “It’s a battle wound. I have one of those.”
When we reached the vineyards, I lifted my skirt at the hem until it was nearly to my hip. There was a knotted scar that had made me hate bikinis all through high school until I decided that was bullshit and I should be proud of it.