Chapter 5 Wanted （For Wedding Stuff） #2
I nod, thrilled that I actually am. I’m more than comfortable with a show if it’s Reed putting it on. I want a show if it’s Reed kneeling in front of me. If it’s Reed’s hands on my leg. Just conversing with this man is pumping glitter through an IV straight into my veins.
The music switches again as I sit: from “Whip It” to “Bad to the Bone.”
The guests chuckle along with me as Reed, a man I just met, backs up and dramatically lowers onto one knee in his Flynn costume to the beat of “Bad to the Bone.” He proceeds to extend his bent leg out and pull himself forward across the floor, three times to the damn music, performing all the way.
I drop my neck back, beaming at the ceiling to expel the emotional overload bombarding my system.
Shaken-up champagne-bottle levels of giddiness are taking up all the space in my chest.
My plan was to hold on to a cooler-than-thou smirk, but I am smiling about as hard as my face can physically manage.
When Reed’s close enough, he reaches for my right foot.
He takes my ankle and lifts it toward him.
His touch sends chills running up my leg.
My floor-length skirt glides up my calf.
With his other hand, Reed slips his fingers under the strap of my silver heel and slowly slides it off, brushing the bottom of my foot with the pads of his fingers.
He tosses my shoe to the side. Guests whoop and holler. Someone wolf-whistles. I grab the seat with my hands and grip it for dear life because he hasn’t broken eye contact this entire time, and my muscles are losing purchase as his eyeballs cook me from the inside out.
His hand tightens around my ankle, and he tugs me closer. I cackle, as myself and the chair slide into him. My raised foot brushes his chest. He smirks at me as he slips the garter from his wrist and slides it over my toes and up my ankle to the beat.
How can he hold a smirk at a time like this? Why don’t I have that skill? It’s taking all my willpower to dull my raging smile to a faint beam.
His hands slip under my long skirt. I suck in a breath as all five of his fingers caress the side of my calf in a slow, repetitive, circular motion, inching the garter up. Each cycle sends a flurry of sparks shooting up into my center.
Oh. My god.
I maneuver the skirt up, over my knees, and tuck it strategically under my left leg, to prevent any potential flashing.
When he reaches my knee, I lift my leg an inch higher so he can get under my thigh. He takes my ankle and secures it over his shoulder.
Good lord.
I must visibly react without realizing it, because a smile finally splits his smirk.
He tilts his chin and presses his lips to the inside of my ankle.
My breath hitches as his fingers move the garter up three more inches.
I think people are screaming. Whistling, clapping.
Lights flash. Everything blurs as three more lingering circles of sparkling, all-consuming, magical-Disney-gods-level fire rage through me.
He takes my leg off his shoulder to a roar of applause. Slips my shoe back on. My skin pulses under his touch. He stands, takes my hands, pulls me up against him, and spins us. My hand is in his hand. His other hand is on my back.
Dancing: He’s leading me in a dance. I blacked out for a second, but I’m back. “Bad to the Bone” is still playing.
“So you dance too,” I breathe over his shoulder. The rest of the guests converge, taking to the floor around us.
“Theater kid. Trained in waltz, tap, swing, and Lindy Hop, thank you very much.”
“Overachiever.”
“Calling the kettle black.”
“Kettles can be other colors.”
He snorts. “You dance, too, I see.”
“Yeah, well, I trained in ballet, tap, and jazz until senior year of high school, was on the dance team all through college and taught it all through undergrad, so I should hope so.” I follow his steps as we whirl around each other in tight, quick circles.
He pulls back from my shoulder to look me in the eyes. “Was that too much?”
I cock my head curiously as we fly around the floor. “Are you a Leo, Reed?”
He smiles. “Aries, but I don’t know much about it.”
“Aries is another fire sign,” I tell him.
“Interesting. So you’re a fire sign?” He grins.
“Why?”
“You’re full of fire.” He pulls me closer against his chest. Our noses touch. “I see it in your eyes. I hear it in your voice.”
I roll my eyes. “And you are full of bullshit.”
“That’s the god’s honest truth, Rikki. Take a harder look in the mirror. I don’t know how you’re missing it.”
I scoff. “Shut up.”
We’re so close I can feel his intake of breath as his smile widens. “Learn how to take a compliment.”
I bite down on my smile as a galaxy of stars bursts from my heart.
I barely know anything about this man. I haven’t asked any of my important first-date questions. I’ve yet to check on the murderer / con artist / fish status.
But I feel something tangible. I can feel the raw possibility. The potential of an us.
And I want it.
What you forget when you’re not in a relationship is how high you can feel when you are in a relationship. There comes a point, post your latest breakup or dating experience, where you’ve reached happy. You’re feeling good—you’re great! You’re perfectly content.
But then you meet someone you like, and you remember this.
This is a different level of happy. A different kind of happy.
The effortlessly vibing with another human, ascending to a higher plane kind of happy.
And it reminds me why I wanted a partner in the first place.
I forgot how potent real connection can be.
I forgot how intoxicating it is to exchange cheesy nonsense with a beautiful human.
“You didn’t mention it was your thirtieth birthday.”
“It will be at midnight,” I say quietly.
“Can I interest you in a celebratory drink?”