Chapter 11
eleven
brIDGET
This is a disaster. I tried to warn Weston that dancing is not my forte, but he didn’t want to listen and I swear at this point, he might also have an injured foot to add to his roster.
“Stop trying to do everything perfect,” he says as we advance toward each other.
I let out a heavy sigh as we retire—move backward–from each other again. Honestly this isn’t an overcomplicated dance, but coordination is hard for me. I don’t know why. Trying to focus on the song, the moves, Weston’s face as he tries not to laugh too hard at me… it’s a lot.
“I’m just trying to follow directions!” I shout, frustrated.
No one warned me there would be partner switching and all this footwork. Advance. Retire. Exchange places. Go away.
That last one sounds less than friendly, if you want my honest opinion.
You know what my zone is? That slow awkward sway from middle school.
I stumble through more footwork and instructions and somehow we end up beside each other. Weston brightens and it slightly offsets the fact that I’m pretty sure I did something wrong.
The caller shouts out for us to spin, and despite the fact that we’ve already done this a few times, I’m still not prepared for Weston to grab me.
And we’re not holding each other's arms like everyone else.
No, Weston has gone rogue.
“This is the most fun I’ve had all day,” he says, pulling me into his arms and spinning us absurdly.
“You’re going to get us into trouble.”
My protest is half-hearted though because I much prefer the press of Weston’s arms against my back versus whatever was happening before.
“Come on Goldilocks, doesn’t it feel just right?”
It does. So much so, I don’t even care that he’s using that blasted nickname again. And it should scare me.
But I’ve experienced the other end of the spectrum and I kind of like it here.
We move a little faster and I have a flashback to that scene in Titanic where Rose sneaks off to the third class deck and she’s really truly happy. Only Weston is way hotter than Jack and whatever this is won’t end with a sunken ship.
That is until I slip on a slick spot on the dance floor and lose my balance. I fist my hands in his shirt, but it’s too late. I’ve thrown off our momentum and there’s no recovery.
We may not be a ship but we’re going down.
SOS.
Send help immediately.
We crash to the floor and unfortunately Weston takes the hardest hit because he’s sandwiched between me and the wood planks.
He groans and I try to scramble off of him because this is humiliating and I’m terrified he’s hurt.
“That could’ve gone better,” he says. “It was a great idea in my head.”
“Are you okay?”
“Depends. What’s my final score?”
I roll my eyes because I’m half convinced Weston could be dying and he’d still make jokes or flirt. He doesn’t take anything seriously.
“Ten for effort, maybe a five for execution. Based on that final part.”
“It’s unfair to deduct points for a partner with two left feet.”
A very unladylike snort escapes me and I cover my mouth. “You should really watch more Dancing With the Stars. It’s not an individual score, it’s based on the couple.”
“Fine. I’ll accept it. I’m just gonna lay here for another second though.”
People keep dancing around us like we don’t even exist, and I guess that’s fine. I’m crouched beside him in my heels and dress, mentally itching to go through an injury checklist. Ask if anything hurts like his back, his head, or most importantly his knee.
I’m trying really hard to just live in the moment, but I’ve seen him after we’ve been out all day. Grimacing when he moves just right or the stiffness first thing in the morning.
I adjust my legs so I’m sitting on my knees. It’s uncomfortable, but it allows me to lean closer so he can hear me over the noise.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” I ask.
He grins up at me. “Just got the wind knocked out of me, really.”
Weston isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. The attraction factor goes without saying. I know my sisters are head over heels for their significant others but honestly, Weston is in a whole other league.
Until the last couple of days, I didn’t even know I found men with auburn hair and brown eyes attractive but apparently I do. A lot.
“Do you want to go sit at a table?”
He frowns like he can’t hear me, so I lean closer. But that was the point I think, because there’s a mischievous wink that flashes in his eyes. His lips curve into his signature lazy grin and my heart stutters.
His lips are really close. All I’d have to do is stretch down a little further.
Like he’s having the same thought, he reaches up and slides a hand along my jaw. Strong, sturdy, and warm.
Holy cow.
I wore my hair down tonight, which isn’t something I usually do. His fingers tiptoe further, up into my hair. A shiver races down my spine at his caress.
Did I tell him no public affection? Because I take it back.
I take it all back.
“You two lovebirds are going to get trampled!” Ethel Jones, owner of the greenhouse off the square shouts as they go away from their partners, and I blink.
That really almost just happened. I’m conflicted about whether I’m disappointed or relieved.
Weston pushes himself to his feet with whatever help I can provide and pauses right as he straightens. If I’m not mistaken, there’s definite disappointment in his eyes.
And if I’m being truly honest with myself, I’m pretty sure I’m feeling the same.
The caller for the Ceili dance announces that they’re switching to an open dance floor for the rest of the night and the band starts a cover of ‘Zombie’ by The Cranberries and I hum appreciatively.
“Cranberries fan?” Weston asks from beside me.
I giggle as I take a sip of my Neverland Nectar ale. “Why are you so surprised?”
“The house has shared many songs, but I haven’t heard that one.”
“I wonder how it selects them.” I run my fingers across etchings in the wood table top. It’s mostly initials and I wonder who these people were.
“I’ve got a whole list of questions,” he chuckles.
“I’ve got one for you,” I announce. “How did you get so good at dancing?”
“I’m not allowed to have rhythm? Or coordination? The second is pretty important as a tight end, Spitfire.”
Even if I squint my eyes just right, I can’t see how dancing and sports have anything to do with each other. Maybe it’s because dancing is difficult for me, and I have limited-ish knowledge about football and dancing, period, but those dots don’t connect.
“I don’t see how hitting people or catching a ball has to do with either of those things.”
He leans back in his chair and chuckles. “Agility. It helps you move faster. Balance. Which is more important than you might realize. Don’t want to fall over before someone can even tackle you.” He ticks off attributes on his fingers.
Another giggle escapes as I try to imagine what he’s sharing with me.
He ignores me and continues. “Strength. Dance is much harder than it looks and allows you to build lean muscle because you’re using your own body weight. And flexibility. It’s pretty good for your joints.”
“And how did you get so knowledgeable about all of this?”
Weston pauses and takes a drink, his demeanor shifting into something a little more withdrawn. “I might’ve taken some classes.”
I’m pretty sure you could knock me over with a feather.
“You did what?”
“I took some classes. Dance classes.” He mumbles.
A reel of clips from The Game Plan cycle through my brain and I try to tamper down my excitement.
“Please tell me you took ballet classes.” I weave my fingers together beneath my chin like a prayer.
He straightens, defensively. “Emmitt Smith took ballet classes. It’s a thing.”
There’s no holding back the joy bursting from me right now. “You’re making my dreams come true right now. I always hoped The Game Plan was accurate.”
I squeeze my eyes closed and revel in the idea of Weston Reilly doing ballet. My favorite scene in the entire movie is the end when he dances with Peyton’s teacher, and now that I can substitute Weston, I might not ever recover.
“You really should stop getting your football knowledge from movies. And don’t compare me to Dwayne Johnson—it’s unhealthy.”
Probably.
I open one eye dramatically. “Do you wear tutu’s? Ever?”
Regret washes over me as a wolfish grin explodes across his face. He leans in close, and whispers, “Nope. Tanks and tights.”
Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?
“Dream killer,” I whisper.
He stretches his leg, a wince flashing across his face. I almost didn’t see it in the dim light.
“Do you think we can call it a night?” he asks.
I slide ungracefully off my barstool and close the distance between us. “You are hurt!”
“I’m fine. Just sore and tired and want to go hang out at home.”
His eyes lift to mine and my insides do a weird little flip.
Home .
It’s strange how one word can shift your world. We’re still staying at the house because after days of trying, we gave up on finding a vacancy anywhere.
Granted, we’re living in completely separate areas of the house and the only time our paths cross is when we’re in common areas like the kitchen or living room.
But that’s happening more and more, and I don’t hate it.
“Okay.” I allow myself to touch his face, even though it’s terrifying. But something deep inside me wants him to know that I’m here. Even though I’m afraid and unprepared for how he makes me feel, I’m here. “Let’s go home.”