23. Leo
Chapter twenty-three
Leo
By the third pour, I was officially buzzing.
I wasn't drunk, just warm around the edges. Loose. That pleasant hum settling into my chest that made everything feel slower, softer. The kind of buzz that made it easier to laugh, easier to talk… and apparently impossible to look anywhere except at Cherise.
I’m sure she was seconds away from cussing me out for staring at her, but I couldn’t help it.
I forced my gaze to the sommelier who was saying something about minerality and balance, his hands moving like he was conducting a very fancy orchestra. I nodded, lifted my glass, and swirled like I knew what I was doing. Like I was… Derrick.
But then Cherise laughed.
That natural, effortless sound that hit me straight in the ribs, and my eyes drifted back to her without permission, tracing the way her shoulders relaxed, the way her mouth curved when she smiled.
I took a sip and barely tasted the wine. All I could focus on was the fact that her thigh was pressed against mine, skin warm through the thin fabric, grounding me and wrecking me at the same time. When she shifted, just slightly, my pulse jumped like a damn rookie.
Focus, man.
Grace was talking about the wedding and how excited she was. I smiled along, chimed in when I was expected, but it felt like I was participating from behind glass.
Cherise leaned closer.
“Are you all right in there? Feeling the effects of the wine already?” She giggled, eyes dancing.
“Yeah, I’m good. What makes you say that?”
Her eyes lowered to my glass.
“Because you just sipped air and you’ve been swirling an empty wine glass for a solid ten seconds.” She smiled.
I smirked, placing my glass on the table. “I’m listening. Just… distracted.”
Her brow lifted. “By?”
My glare dragged down the length of her body, then back to her eyes. “The view.”
Her smile deepened, and when her hand found my thigh again under the table, fingers giving the lightest squeeze, my brain completely tapped out.
Yeah.
The wine wasn’t the problem.
The rest of the tasting blurred together in a haze of clinking glasses, laughter, and the sommelier bravely soldiering on despite our table’s complete disregard for professionalism. There were notes of oak and cherry, something about tannins.
By the final pour, everyone was smiling louder than necessary, cheeks flushed, voices loose.
We settled our tab and spilled out into the warm Hawaiian evening, the ocean breeze cutting through the buzz just enough to keep us upright as we headed toward the luau.
Torches lined the entrance, flames flickered against the darkening sky.
Drums thumped in the distance, deep and rhythmic, vibrating straight through my chest. The smell of roasted pork and sweet pineapple hung thick in the air, and Cherise’s eyes lit up as if she was already having the time of her life.
Dinner was served family style, right on the beach, laughing, passing plates, and clinking glasses again because, apparently, we’d learned nothing.
Hula dancers and Samoan fire performers took to the sand as the sun finally slipped below the horizon, bathing the sky in shades of coral and gold. With each sway of their hips and slice of their hands through the smoky dusk, the dancers moved like living poetry.
Then came the fire. Twirling batons ablaze, tongues of flame hurled into the sky before vanishing in a puff of smoke.
Cherise sat still, in a trance, her knee bouncing under the table as sparks illuminated the ocean breeze.
I placed my arm around her shoulders, and she melted into me. This was heaven.
When the host stepped forward, microphone in hand, and announced they’d be taking volunteers for a couple's hula dance competition, Savannah’s arm shot into the air so fast it nearly dislocated.
“Greg and I!” she yelled, already standing.
Of course.
Before I could process what was happening, Cherise lifted her hand, too. Casual, confident, absolutely evil.
“Oh no,” I muttered.
She turned to me, grinning. “Oh yes.”
A few other brave—or drunk—couples joined in, and we were ushered closer to the sanded stage. While the first pair danced, I leaned down to Cherise.
“Are the hula skirts really necessary?” I said, flapping my hands through the flowy straw skirt straddling my waist.
“Would you prefer the coconut bra? I can make arrangements.”
“No, I would prefer sitting back in my seat, drink in hand, watching other people make a fool of themselves for a change.”
“Where is the fun in that?” she asked, adjusting her breast in her coconut bra.
“Cherise, you made me play volleyball, and I am still cleaning sand out of my ears. Let’s look at it from another approach. Would Derrick let you talk him into hula dancing in a skirt in front of a live audience?”
“No, and that’s exactly why I am glad you are here with me and not him.”
That made me pause. Flat out stunned me.
She would rather I be here than Derrick?
“Why? Because I am a pushover that lets you talk me into coconut-themed chaos?”
She turned to me. “No, because you show up. You care enough about me to not let me do things alone.”
With that, I forgot about the itchy straw waistband, the hundreds of gawking tourists, and the fact that I was probably about to go viral for all the wrong reasons.
“You’ll be fine, just follow my lead. I will attract all the attention, and you can just… exist beside me. Be my backup dancer.”
I let out a breath. “No, you won’t win with me just existing.” I scratched at my waist. “I want to put effort into this for you. I know how bad you want to beat Savannah.”
Her face contorted into an evil grin as her eyes threw daggers at Savannah. “More than anything.”
“Okay, so what’s your plan? I'm all in.”
Cherise’s fist pumped the air. “I knew I could count on you. Okay, do you know how to hula?”
I looked down at myself, then back at her. “Do I look like I know how to hula?”
She chuckled. “Right, so then we have to play on one of your other strengths,” she said, tapping a finger to her chin. “How well are your dance moves?”
“Depends. We're talking tasteful sway or full humiliation?”
Her eyes lit up. “Make 'em spit their drinks out from laughing so hard.”
“I got you.”
We stepped onto the sand as the music began. Cherise started first, rolling her hips with infuriating ease. Arms fluid, graceful, and completely unfair. The group clapped along.
I attempted to follow.
Attempted being the operative word.
My hips do something aggressive and wrong. Someone gasped. Someone snickered. Someone choked on their wine.
“This feels disrespectful,” I whisper screamed to Cherise, then immediately abandoned the hula entirely and moonwalked across the sand instead.
The crowd lost it.
Cherise, not to be outdone, breaks into The Whip and then—God help me— The Nae Nae, and I countered, breaking full out in a Teach Me How to Dougie routine.
I thought I was killing it, until Cherise did a backflip. A fucking backflip! Then finished with a split!
New kink unlocked by the way.
She bounced up with ease, then broke out in The Chicken Noodle Soup dance. I’m laughing so hard my stomach hurts. She’s laughing. Everyone’s laughing. Even Savannah looks stunned into temporary silence.
The music stopped, and Cherise and I struck a pose. The crowd loved it; applause surrounded us. I haven’t had this much fun in... never—I have never had this much fun. Hands locked together, we took a bow and made our way off the sanded stage.
“Where did you get those moves?” she asked through laughter.
“Me?” I grinned. “Miss land a freaking backflip and split Simone Biles.”
“Yeah, that was a bad idea. I’m not cheer captain anymore. I think I may have pulled something. I blame it on the liquid courage. I am definitely going to be feeling that tomorrow.”
“And I will nurse you back to health with a warm sponge bath.”
We heard a loud throat clear as Savannah sauntered by. Jaw tightened, eyes narrowed, as she dragged Greg behind her. “I wouldn’t celebrate so soon,” she said, chin high. “The competition has just begun.”
Cherise rolled her eyes. “Oh, honey, you can’t compete where you don’t compare.”
Savannah’s nostrils flared. “We will just have to see about that.”
With a sharp flip of her overprocessed hair, she marched toward the stage with Greg in tow.
It started innocently enough. Some hip swaying. A little spin. Savannah struck a pose, and Greg looked… weirdly focused.
Then his shirt came off.
The crowd lost its damn mind.
“Was that even allowed?” I complained.
Cherise’s jaw hit the floor. I covered her eyes with my hands, and she dipped below them, and continued to gawk.
He didn’t just hula, he performed. Hips rolling as if he’d been training for this his entire life.
It was full Magic Mike meets family luau, and I’m not too proud to admit that it was sexy as hell.
Savannah stared at him with a mix of horror and awe as he hit three dramatic hip thrusts, then dropped to his knees, arms out, shamelessly committing to the bit.
When the applause finally died down, someone jokingly threw a few ones at him.
Greg bowed.
Savannah curtsied.
They won. Obviously.
Annoyed, Cherise crossed her arms, pouting. “Ugh.” She huffed.
I laughed and tugged her closer. “Hey, we had fun, right? That’s what matters?”
She looked up at me and softened. Her smile was quiet, tipsy, warm, and just a little vulnerable. “Yeah,” she said. “We did.”