Page 30 of Not You Again

She asks us about our dance experience, then tells us to pair up.

I turn to Andie, and she slides into an awkward dance frame with me. My hand on her waist, her hands on my chest. It’s the closest we’ve been since I caught her on the zip line course yesterday.

“No, no, no!” The instructor comes by to gently pull us apart. “This is salsa, not a waltz.”

She arranges us into the proper position: standing a few feet apart with both of Andie’s hands in mine. Before long, we’re stepping back and forth in tandem while salsa music blares in the background.

“So,” I say when I notice a camera specifically trained on us, “is this more or less terrifying than jumping out of a tree?”

Andie snorts. “I think more.”

“Me too.” I stumble over my own feet, which makes Andie shuffle back too quickly. Her legs get tangled in her skirts, and she gasps. I lunge forward to grab her around the waist.

It’s the studio wall that finally stops our chaotic stumble. I press my hand to the stucco next to Andie’s head.

I let out a breath and mutter, “Well, that was embarrassing.”

Andie barks out a laugh, tossing her head back and exposing her throat. I’m mesmerized, swallowing the urge to press my lips to the underside of her chin. It doesn’t take long for me to realize my thigh is between her legs, and all at once it’s too much.

I push myself off the wall and brush off my hands just as Patrick booms, “Get a room!”

“We’re just taking steps,” Jamie teases. “You know, like walking.”

I drag a hand down my face as Andie shakes with giggles. Though my face is burning with embarrassment, I smile at her joy. It’s the lightest I’ve seen her since our wedding.

She takes the hand I offer, still beaming. I love the sparkle in her eyes and the pink that’s showing high on her cheeks. “Definitely more dangerous than zip lining.”

“Should have brought our helmets.” I gently tap her forehead with my index finger. Her eyes cross a little, which makes me laugh. “Sorry I suck at walking.”

She sighs, her shoulders heaving. “I guess we have to try again, don’t we?”

We resume our spot on the dance floor. “I know you won’t let us eat until we’re the best salsa dancers in this room.”

“True,” she says, bending down. Before I can ask what she’s doing, she grabs the hem of her long skirt and stands, tucking it into her waistband.

It flashes the bare skin of one of her legs, and the finished effect makes her look like a pirate woman at a Renaissance festival. Especially when she puts her hands on her hips and her cheeks puff out with a deep breath.

“Let’s go again, Watson.” Her mouth is in a determined line. I offer my hands without hesitation. When she slides her fingers against mine, I can’t help but give her a squeeze and a confident smile.

“Once you master this, we can work on a lean.” The instructor circles back to us. She watches us, clapping out a beat and counting until we can do the basic steps without much thought. “But first, honey,” she says to Andie, “you need to learn to follow his lead. You can’t both lead, or you’ll end up on your asses again.”

Andie puffs out a breath. “Why do I have to follow?”

“Because sometimes it’s good to let him do the work. It gives you a break.”

Andie steels her jaw, stubborn as ever.

“Stop thinking so hard,” the instructor says to Andie as she watches us. “It’s his turn to do the thinking. You just go with it. Trust him.”

Andie shakes out her arms mid-step, takes a deep breath, then settles back into our pace. Back and forth. Back and forth.

“Better.” The instructor nods her approval. “Better.”

For the lean, the instructor has us stand side by side, Andie’s right hand in my left. I watch her as our arms extend and she prepares to spin toward me. Her hair is frizzing at the edges, and her chest is now pink from the exercise. It has me thinking of how she used to look after another kind of aerobic activity.

My mind is so far gone that she presses her hip to mine, and I flinch. Her body against mine jolts me back to the present moment, and I forget what I’m supposed to do next. So I just stare at her—her face so close to mine I can see the way her irises change from caramel brown at the center to gray-green at the edges.

Even more stunning than her eyes—she doesn’t pull away. Instead, her eyes are on my mouth, her warm breath skimming over my neck and creeping down the collar of my shirt. It’s all I can do to keep my eyes on her face as I feel the rise and fall of her chest.

---