Chapter 2 #3
When we find an open spot on the dance floor, Wyatt turns to me, his free hand coming to rest at my shoulder blade, not on my hip like I would have thought.
I’m not sure if it’s because he’s being a gentleman or if that’s really where it’s supposed to go.
Either way, I’m impressed that he isn’t trying to cop a feel.
It lends a bit of clout to his three-date rule.
Some instinctual part of me, or maybe the part that watches a lot of rom-coms, places my hand on his upper arm, close to his shoulder, and good lord, he fills this shirt out nicely. He’s firm; without even poking or prodding his arm, I can feel the muscles beneath the material.
“Okay, so,” he starts, raising our linked hands to shoulder height.
He’s grooving just a little to the beat of the country song blasting through the club, his excitement sliding through his hand into mine, making me want to follow the swagger he’s found.
“It’s really simple. All we’re going to do is move around the dance floor in a big circle—don’t worry, I’ll be the one watching for others—and we’re going to do some easy steps with our feet.
Your job is to keep the distance between us as I step towards you. ”
He waits for me to nod, then continues, “The pattern is the same all the way around. We’ll take two quick steps, and then two slow steps. It goes along with the beat. Quick-quick, slow-slow.” He says the “quick” part faster and drags out the “slow.”
“Sounds simple,” I tell him. “Keep distance. Quick-quick, slow-slow. Got it.”
Wyatt grins. “It is. Ready?”
When I nod my confirmation, there’s a sudden push against my hand in his, and he moves towards me, pushing me backward into a step.
Even though I told him I was ready, I stumble on the first two steps, gasping when it catches me off guard.
Wyatt’s grip tightens at my shoulder and around my hand to keep me upright and balanced, ensuring I don’t face plant on the floor.
My cheeks flame at my incoordination, but he grins. “Repeat the words in your head. Quick-quick,” he says at the same time as he steps quickly, and then slowly, “Slow-slow.”
Hearing it at the same time as doing it has me stepping in time, and he must realize it because he repeats himself with each new step we take.
When I stumble again a few beats later, he doesn’t lose focus; he holds me securely in his grasp to keep me steady and falls back in with the music as easily as if I hadn’t stepped on his feet like a newborn fawn, clumsy and awkward on brand new legs.
“There you go!” Wyatt proclaims when we’ve done a whole turn around the dance floor.
A few other couples have joined, two-stepping a circle around the large crowd dancing in the middle of the floor. They dance at a faster pace, obviously knowing the steps that I’m just starting to get the hang of.
“You’re a little dancer girl,” Wyatt says with that same twinkle as earlier. “You’re doing so good.”
The praise causes a somersault in my stomach, and my step falters again.
It’s a good thing his boots aren’t polished, because they’re taking a beating.
It doesn’t seem to bother him that I don’t know what I’m doing, judging by the glint in his eye and the smile that’s been permanently etched on his face, making his right dimple dip deeply.
“What do you think about stepping it up a notch?” he asks, wiggling his eyebrows playfully.
I poke him in the shoulder. “Are you a glutton for punishment?”
“I’m a glutton for a good time.”
There’s a brand new pressure on my shoulder blade, and suddenly our joined hands are lifting above my head while he takes a step away from me. At the same time, I find myself spinning. A squeal filled with half delight and half surprise erupts from my lips just in time to face Wyatt again.
That’s as coordinated as I am, though, because as Wyatt continues to step in time with the music, keeping his hand pressure against mine to lead, I go against everything and try to step towards him, crashing into his body and somehow managing to step on both of his feet.
It doesn’t matter that they’re already scuffed, I’m probably beating them up like some horse trotting all over them.
His strong arm encircles me, and for a second, my feet leave the ground, my body flush against his solid, sturdy one before he places me back down a second later, our steps slowing as he steadies me.
“I’m so sorry,” I scramble to apologize, my cheeks blazing with heat that I hope he can’t see beneath the club’s dim lights. “I’m hopeless.”
The easy grin doesn’t leave his face, like I didn’t just step all over his boots. “You’re not hopeless. You’re learning. And you’re doing a damn good job at it.”
We’re a lot closer now, with his arm still around my waist, and my hand nearly at his neck. The other is still engulfed by his much bigger one. There’s a crackling of energy that seems to live in the space between us, and it has my breath catching in my throat.
Or maybe it’s his words that do that.
You’re not hopeless.
Not hopeless.
I’m not hopeless.
“Spin me again,” I ask of him. “Until I’m not stepping all over your toes.”
His eyes shine as brightly as the disco lights from the club, and I swear his smile grows. “With pleasure.”