Page 65 of Forget Me

“That”—he finally looked up—“that was different. It was more than flirting. We had a connection. And you started it.”

“I did? That doesn’t sound like me.”

“There was a guy hitting on you. I came over to check that you were okay with it.”

“Was I?”

His jaw tensed. “You weren’t in any shape to be hit on by anyone.”

“Oh.” I looked down at my glass of wine.

“But you were relaxed in a way I’d never seen you. So we started talking and…”

“And?”

He shrugged. “The rest is history.”

A history I’d remembered at last.

He scraped the chicken into the cooker, twisted on the lid, and set it. He went to the sink to wash his hands. “We have twenty minutes. And I propose we use that time dancing.”

“Dancing? You promised me a taste. An amuse-something.”

Slowly, he dried his hands, consuming me with his gaze. “Don’t you know? Dancing is foreplay.”

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