Chapter 7
FAYE
I don’t know what possesses me to give Rebecca her drink back and take Ryder’s hand.
Temporary insanity? The lingering adrenaline from nearly getting punched?
Maybe the sight of him moving across the dance floor, all confident swagger and devastating hip rolls, ruined something critical in my frontal lobe, and I’ve lost the ability to make sensible decisions.
Ryder’s fingers close over mine—sure, proprietary. The warmth of his palm seeps through me like sunlight, turning my blood effervescent.
My already boiling skin scrapes against his rough calluses.
These are the hands of a man who builds and fixes and handles heavy things.
I’ve only ever had soft hands on me. Fingers that spent most of their time typing at a keyboard.
Would I feel the difference? How would those calluses feel on other parts of my body? I suspect sinfully amazing.
The crowd parts as he pulls me deeper onto the dance floor. Bodies shift and reform around us, creating a pocket of space that feels both too public and too intimate.
I already regret this decision. More so when his other hand settles on my hip. His palm is large, fingers splayed protectively across the curve of my waist.
The burning sensation I’ve been experiencing all night rekindles, multiplies; it spreads like a wildfire until I’m certain I’m glowing red-hot in the dim bar lighting.
The space between our bodies is minimal. Less than a foot. Close enough that I could bottle his scent into a new fragrance called Cedar and Muscles.
My brain scrambles for the appropriate protocol. Where do I put my other hand? Shoulder? Bicep? Do I let it dangle at my side like a broken appendage?
I settle for dropping it awkwardly on his shoulder, fingers curling against the soft flannel. Underneath the fabric, his torso is solid—warm and unyielding.
Ryder doesn’t comment on my gracelessness.
He adjusts his grip, shifts his weight, and moves.
He leads me into a slow two-step, his body guiding mine with easy confidence.
Right foot forward, left foot follows, slide together.
His hand at my hip directs me gently, not pushing, not pulling, simply suggesting the direction and trusting me to follow.
And I do. My body responds to his even as my mind stays several beats behind, trying to catch up to the reality that I’m slow-dancing with Ryder Evans.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs.
“I’m not.”
“Your shoulders are up around your ears.”
Damn it. He’s right. I relax them, and my movements become easier. Smoother.
“Better.” The hint of a smile curls his lips.
We sway in silence for a few bars.
The hand holding mine is gentle but firm. His thumb brushes absently over my knuckles, a small motion that sends sparks skittering up my arm and down my spine. I wonder if he knows he’s doing it. If it’s intentional or just a habit. Who did he use to dance with? This clearly isn’t his first rodeo.
The skin where his hand rests on my hip is slowly reaching core-of-the-Earth temperatures. I’m surprised my jeans haven’t melted yet. The heat radiates outward in waves, spreading in my lower back, creeping up my ribs, pooling in my gut.
This is a mistake. A monumental, catastrophic mistake.
But I can’t seem to make myself step away.
“Why did you ask me to dance?” I force myself to maintain eye contact.
His hand flexes on my waist, fingers spreading wider, pulling me an inch closer.
“I wanted to apologize,” he says simply. His lips quirk in a sheepish half-smile. “I didn’t do it properly the other day.”
“Or at all,” I correct, unable to help myself.
The half-smile transforms into a full grin that makes his eyes crinkle.
“Or at all,” he agrees. “But I’m doing it now.” He twirls me away and pulls me back in. “I’m sorry.”
His expression shifts. The smile fades, replaced by a more honest vulnerability.
“Whenever someone mentions Abigail—Rhys’s mother—I overreact.” His voice settles in the hollow at the base of my throat. “The only two things I’ve come to expect when she’s brought up are pity or judgment.”
Another twirl. Each time, I end up closer to him. Our chests are almost touching now.
“I shouldn’t have assumed the worst and acted like an entitled ass,” he continues.
“That comes from six years of single-dad life in a small town where everyone has opinions about how I’m raising my kid.
I defaulted to being defensive the second you mentioned her name was missing from the enrollment form. ”
The sincerity in his voice does something dangerous to my chest. Makes it tight and achy. Makes me want to forgive him even though I’m still mad. Even though he pissed me off so spectacularly.
I default back to sarcasm. “Very defensive-aggressive of you.”
He chuckles, a low rumble I sense more than hear. The sound vibrates through his chest into my hand on his shoulder; it spreads more warmth through my palm.
“Yeah,” he admits. “I hope you’ll forgive my misplaced Papa Bear energy.” His lilt goes back to teasing.
Why does he have to be so flipping charming?
The brute version of Ryder Evans was easy not to burn about.
But this version? This version is problematic.
As the song continues, the lead singer’s voice weaves through the slow guitar chords.
Around us, other couples sway and turn, lost in their own worlds.
His hand is still burning through my jeans.
His thumb brushing my knuckles in that maddening, probably unconscious pattern.
And his eyes haven’t left mine, holding me captive with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe, let alone talk.
“So,” he says after a moment, “do I get that second chance?”
I should say no.
But my mouth has other ideas. It splits into a smile I don’t control, that I can’t rein back in. “We’ll see.”
He smiles back, like he knows I’m full of crap and he’s already mushed all the contempt in my heart.
The song ends, and Ryder lets me go, stepping back.
The loss of his physical warmth and support is immediate and jarring. It leaves me disoriented.
He tips an imaginary hat at me. “Thank you for the dance, Miss Rose.”
And then he winks, turns, and disappears into the crowd.
Gone.
Just like that.
I stand rooted to the spot, staring after him like an idiot. My palm tingles. My hip still blisters. And my entire body thrums with… I don’t even know what with.
What just happened?
The question circles in my head like a dog chasing its tail. Was he just apologizing? Did he put on this show only to tell me he was sorry? Are apology dances a thing here?
That can’t be all it was.
The music picks up again, transitioning into an upbeat number that has the dance floor filling back up. I’m jostled sideways by a passing dancer.
I should go back to my friends and pretend the last ten minutes of my life didn’t happen. I elbow my way to where they have snatched a table.
“Holy cows.” Rebecca appears at my side. “What the hell was that?”
“I have no idea.” It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all night.
“That was the most intense vertical foreplay I’ve ever witnessed,” Lila adds, fanning herself. “I thought you two were going to combust on the dance floor.”
“We were just talking.” Even I don’t believe the words.
“Uh-huh.” Alejandra joins us, bringing Aurora with her. “About favorite sex positions, from the looks of it.”
“What? No! He’s the father of one of my students.” I swallow past a dry mouth. “We had a thing a few days ago.”
“Aaaah.” Rebecca teases. “The misunderstanding.”
“He was apologizing.”
“With his hand on your ass?” Aurora asks.
“It was on my back.”
“Super lower back,” Rebecca corrects with a grin. “Borderline ass territory.”
“You’re still blushing,” Aurora says.
“It’s hot in here.”
“Uh-huh.” Lila’s teasing is merciless. “That’s definitely why.”
I open my mouth to argue, to insist that yes, we’re in an overcrowded bar and that’s the only reason for my flushed face, thank you very much. But the words die in my throat.
Because that prickling sensation in my scalp is back.
The one that tells me I’m being watched. That somewhere in this crowd of bodies and noise and colored lights, Ryder Evans’s eyes are on me.
I scan the bar casually, trying not to be obvious about it. Trying to look like I’m observing the general scene and not searching for one specific person. For the father of one of my students. Dancing with him was already inappropriate, going after him would be unprofessional.
Luckily, I don’t find him.
But the awareness persists, crawling across my skin as static energy. I feel the weight of his attention even if I can’t locate the source. Feel the heat of his gaze tracking me from somewhere in the shadows.
And worst of all—absolutely worst of all—I want it.
Want his eyes on me.