6. Jasmine
6
JASMINE
W hen we first matched, I thought maybe the algorithm was a dud. Or maybe I was unmatchable. While cute and funny, Nick was nothing like I’d expected, and he was not the kind of guy I’d ever consider for myself. Forget the fact that I’d never have a compatible schedule with a bartender. The man had me meet him for our first date at his bar, while he was working. He’s too unserious, too fun. Good for a good time, not a long time. I’m still not convinced about the algorithm, but out of all the people in this huge room, most of who know me better than he does—which isn’t difficult since he barely knows me at all—he’s the only person who bothered to save me. I don’t have anything against being saved, I’m just not sure it’s ever happened to me before.
Usually, I have to be my own hero.
I put my hand, still warm from Mitchell’s skin, into Nick’s palm.
Then, it’s like Mitchell doesn’t exist, never existed. Nick pulls me into him. His hand spans my shoulder blades, crushing the bow holding my jumpsuit up. He interlocks our fingers and sways as the band plays a new song with a more upbeat tempo. Nick’s movements don’t quicken, though. We move in a slow circle, out of time with the music. He fits his cheek against my temple, like it was meant to be there. Every breath brushes my ear, sending the piece of hair I can never keep tucked behind my ear floating. His breathing alone sends shivers down my spine.
“Nick,” I whisper, hit with the urge to explain myself. How I said no when Mitchell asked me to dance. How he then raised his voice into a petulant, drunken whine. How I didn’t want to be a part of whatever scene he was ready to make so I danced with him, hoping at once that no one would see us, and that anyone would. “It wasn’t…”
He squeezes my hand and shakes his head. I’m choosing to read that as whatever you’re about to say, don’t .
“What are you doing?” I ask instead.
“Dancing with you.” His deep tone vibrates through me, drowning out the lead singer’s crooning.
We’re a music-box couple.
“Not really,” I say. “We’re barely moving.”
He sighs, like I’ve just made the most egregious error of my life, then he spins me. Once, twice. The room becomes a blur, of the fractals from the mirror ball, of the dark shadows cast by the band, their instruments, the other guests. He reels me back in, my back pressed to his chest, his arms crossed in front of me, still holding my hands against my hips, setting his chin on my bare shoulder.
We dance. Nick dances .
His hips, his shoulders, sway mine. He hums along with the singer. A fire ignites in my chest, burning low and sweet.
“You can’t dance,” I say, breathless. My colleagues’ stares are heavy on my bare skin. Who wouldn’t stare at two people moving like this, plastered together from shoulder to knee, moving in a way that makes them look far more intimately acquainted than Nick and I are. I keep my eyes on the place where our fingers intertwine against the soft velvet of my jumpsuit.
He spins me again, back around to face him, and notches me back into the place against his cheek. We slow, dancing against the music. My limbs don’t fight so hard to keep the beat anymore. My muscles follow his lead, the music in his head.
“I can dance,” he says, his voice low. “I just don’t .”
I lower my chin, surveying the space between us. The shine of his shoes catches a glint of light as he leads me through another gentle turn. Pressed this close to the open collar of his button-down, I’m enveloped in the scent of the cologne I asked him to use. Suddenly, I regret not doing it earlier when he demanded I smell him.
“I hate to tell you this.” I press my nose to his throat.
Nick doesn’t flinch but he does make a sound, so low I can’t hear it but can feel it rumble through his throat.
“You’re dancing.”
The drummer hits his cymbals again again again on the outro. Nick’s hand is a kite line, the only thing keeping me from floating into the bunting draped above us.
“Like I said, I can dance. I just don’t.” He pulls back and studies me. His brown eyes hold none of the sarcasm or snark that feels natural to him.
“So, why are you dancing with me?”
He slips one hand up my bare arm, leaving heat in its wake like the burn of bourbon. Cupping the side of my neck, he brushes his thumb along my jawline. He presses at the corner of my lips. He’ll smudge my lipstick.
I lean into his hand.
He shrugs. “Just seemed right.”
We’re standing in the middle of the dance floor, unmoving. “Is everyone looking at us?”
“If they were, would that bother you?”
Yes. Usually. Not right now. “Maybe we should…” I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. “Maybe they think we’re fighting.” A silly, stupid lie.
Nick knows it. His thumb brushes my lower lip.
My words are breathy. “We should look more like a happy couple.”
He nods. The lead singer’s voice lingers on a haunting final note.
“I want to kiss you.”
“Okay,” I say, my voice strangled.
He pulls me closer, his arm around my waist. He keeps his eyes open, only letting them fall closed as his lips, fruity and spicy with the taste of red wine, meet mine. I can’t look away from the fan of his lashes against the delicate skin below his eyes or the diamonds reflected onto his features from the glittering lights.
He opens my mouth with his, grips me everywhere, his palm against my upper back, my shoulders, his other hand pressed flat to my collar bone.
I explore the width of his shoulders, the expanse of his back, the soft hair at his nape that curls around my fingers like it wants to keep me there. He smiles against me, following the curve of my mouth.
An ache blooms in my chest. Each time his lips brush mine, the ache grows deeper, until it’s pulsing inside me. Already my muscles remember where he touched me. My body knows what’s next even if my head is fully aware that we’re standing in the middle of a dance floor, surrounded by my co-workers.
We could get a room upstairs. He’d hold my hand in the elevator. At the click of the hotel room door closing behind us, he’d pull at the tie on my jumpsuit and let the top come loose, peel the garment down my legs. He’d press his mouth between my thighs. Slide his fingers up the inside of my leg. He’d find me wet, and he’d make me come like that, with the gentle touch of his hand, the soft suck of his lips.
This wasn’t part of the deal. Suddenly, though, I can’t remember why. Maybe our plans could change, just for tonight, for right now. It won’t mean anything if I press him down on the bed. If his stubble leaves marks across my thighs and chest. We can go back to the plan tomorrow, after he rolls me over and slides into me, just this one time, tonight.
“Jasmine,” he says against my lips.
I can’t stop exploring, the heat at the base of his spine, the place where his jaw meets his earlobe.
“Jasmine.” He breathes my name. I could live like this, off these little gasps of air.
He pulls away, grimacing, like it hurts him to stop. My hands are fisted in the lapels of his blue suit jacket, my hair looser in its pins, my lips likely bare of any color I added before I left my apartment.
The music has stopped. The room is brighter and suddenly cold. I close my eyes, if only to avoid the bewilderment on his face.
He kisses my forehead, eliciting a shiver.
This is not the plan. This is not how I stop the stares and the whispers.
“Nick?”
He nods against me.
“I think I’m going to go home,” I say. “Alone.”