Page 8 of The Best Kind of Bad

“No.” She hedges. “I like to dance.”

I hold out my hand. “Will you dance with me?”

She hesitates, studying my face. With a playful smile, she shrugs. “Why the hell not?”

Climbing to her feet, I see her for the first time in all her glory.

Nice legs.

Soft curves.

Short.

The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.

She puts that soft little hand in mine, and I lead her to an open space between tables. Slipping one hand behind her back, I let it lightly rest on the small of her back. The other hand holds hers as I guide her in a country two-step. She’s not familiar with it, but picks up on it almost immediately. The only people I know who can pick up dances that fast are actual dancers.

I’m curious about her. I want to know who she is. Where she came from and what makes her tick.

But all that can wait. Right now, we’ve got a dance ahead of us, and I’ve got the sweet smell of her shampoo filling my nose.

I don’t know who she is, but for a guy who’s been on a losing streak, I feel like I struck it rich.

6.

Marnie

I was on the dance team in high school. And for a time, in college, too.

I know a good dancer when I see one.

Dusty is good.

He’s graceful and sure.

If you’ve got someone who can lead, you don’t need to know the steps.

He’s tall. I feel a little like a tiny bird caught in a lion’s paws. And damn if I don’t like the way his hand feels on my back. A whisper of a touch, but dominant. Confident I’ll follow where he leads.

He’s right about that.

I’m in his spell, this stranger from Silver Bend.

Maybe life took pity on me.

After all the shit I’ve been through, maybe I’ve earned a little gift.

I’ll be gone by tomorrow. I’m going to take care of business and split. My real life is waiting for me back in Lincoln. I’ll just have to sort through the ashes to find it.

I’m not looking to start anything here in this town, but for just a little while, it’s nice to find comfort in a stranger’s arms.

Reeling closer, I rest my cheek on his chest, letting my right hand slip down from his shoulder to curve around his back. The muscles in his back are like twin branches, springing up from slim hips. Everything about this man is hard. He radiates strength and athleticism. And his smell. Would it be too obvious if I buried my nose in his shirt?

I resist the urge, electing to take a slow, quiet inhale. He smells like outside. And crisp soap. And sweat. But it’s a good smell, masculine and honest.

He’s still holding my left hand in his callused palm. His thumb slides along the back of my hand and I feel my entire core start to warm up.

Outside, the song shifts from a mid-paced country waltz to a good old-fashioned ballad. It’s a sad song about old love and a long life lived together.

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