Page 11 of After All

Sliding my phone into his back pocket, he turns to face me and draws me closer to him. My nervousness about dancing in the middle of all these important people — alone — has yet to abate, and I know Carter can tell.

With one hand clasping mine and the other resting at the small of my back, he slowly sways us to the rhythm of the song playing over the speakers. Muddy Boots hasn’t taken the stage yet, so the DJ takes over until they do.

My mind races as my skin pebbles under my clothes and my hand registers the warmth of his shoulder through his shirt. Is this normal? Are all the feelings and thoughts in my head what everyone else encounters? Does touch make every other person on the planet besides me feel warm and cozy all over? Realistically, I understand that I’m not the only touch-averse person alive, but these thoughts and others like them have lived rent-free in my head for a really long time.

I’ve been to countless weddings when friends and co-workers and family members got married, and I’ve watched from the sidelines for years as dance floors filled and reverberated with music and good vibes, and I’ve never – not even once – been in the middle of the fray. I’ve never even been on the fringes. I’ve always been a bystander, an outlier, and I know it’s self-induced. I would never blame another soul for my own issues, but it doesn’t change the fact that I want to find someone who pushes me enough to want to change – for both myself and for them.

Then when I realize I’m dancing with a man I met mere minutes before, I think: Maybe I have.

“Who sings this song?” I ask, trying to make small talk even though I always ask ridiculous questions when I do.

“You know, it’s funny, but I don’t know. I’m usually pretty hard to stump when it comes to music trivia, but this one isn’t one I’ve heard before. Must be newer.”

I hum quietly in response and feel the hand on my back move to my hip as he winds us closer together. My breathing accelerates just a bit, and all I can think is I hope he doesn’t notice. I’m so damn awkward, and I want — just once — to act appropriately.

“Well, look at that.”

I lift my head and look at him, and when I see his gaze on something just behind me, I turn.

“Looks like we’re trendsetters, huh?” I laugh at the couples filling the open floor around us.

“Looks like it,” he answers with a smile.

Chapter 7

Carter

One song.

That’s all I’d ask from her.

I just want to hold her in my arms for one single song.

Four minutes.

It won’t be enough.

Not if this buzzing in my chest is any indication of the connection we share.

Not if the way her skin warms underneath my hands gives me ideas about other parts of her body bending and melding to my desires.

Dios mío, this woman is incredible.

A doctor. And not just any doctor, but one with a PhD and a medical license. Smart times two.

The last chorus of the song I don’t recognize plays, and I brace myself for her retreat. But she surprises me and stays in my arms as the house DJ seamlessly weaves one song into another.

This one I do know.

George Strait’s lilting voice came through the speakers, clear as a bell, singing about getting carried away by a woman… how nothing is ordinary when he’s with her.

I understand it… for the first time in a long time, I get it.

The reason men write songs about women.

My fingers itch for a pen and my notebook, but there’s no way I’m letting go of Amelie first.

The piano and fiddle fade, and again, I steel myself.

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