Page 11 of Baby for My Best Friend's Brother

I’d also like to find whoever put the idea of an impromptu dance class into Winter’s head. I have a few choice words for them.

Slate smirks as he stretches his arms. “We’re doing this because we love your sister very much.”

“You're the one marrying her.”

“And you're the one who made your parents think they should have another kid.”

I grunt. “I’m pretty sure that had more to do with a Super Bowl win and a missing box of condoms.”

Slate chokes on a laugh. “Don't let Winter hear you say that. She's convinced she was conceived to a Whitney Houston ballad.”

"She probably was," I grumble. “Our mom was going through a Kevin Costner phase.” God knows I sawThe Bodyguardprobably a hundred times as a small child.

“Which is still less humiliating than this.” I gesture to the line-dancing instructions being scrawled across a whiteboard by a woman in cowboy boots who looks entirely too chipper for this situation.

Across the hall, couples are milling around awaiting direction. An upbeat and twangy song plays over the speakers. I crane my neck to see if there’s any way for me to sneak out the back without alerting Winter after this thing gets started.

Then I see her.

Sophie is standing at the edge of the dance floor. The sundress she’s wearing catches the light, hugging every one of her ample curves. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she’s got this easy confidence that makes her glow.

She throws back her head and laughs at something one of the groomsmen says. My frown deepens.

He’s standing a little too close to her for comfort.

My jaw tightens.

I watch them for another beat as two more men sidle up. All of them buddies Slate made during his military career.

Ice floods my veins.

“Excuse me,” I mutter to Slate. “I gotta… take care of something.”

He follows my glare and smirks. “I see that you do. Tell your girl I say, ‘hey.’”

I ignore him as I stalk across the room. When one of the guys tries to brush a lock of hair back from Sophie’s face, I step between them.

“If you’ll excuse me”—I practically growl until he takes a giant step back—“I believe this dance is mine.”

Sophie’s lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t protest as I lead her away.

“Sorry.” I scrunch my nose. “I don’t usually do that. But he was getting a little too close for comfort.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Yours or mine?”

The instructor claps her hands and calls for us to turn toward us, saving me from having to answer. As she goes over the first steps, I place a hand at Sophie’s waist as directed. It’s supposed to be casual—for balance or leading or something.

But the second my palm meets the curve of her hip, I forget every instruction I heard.

“You okay?” Sophie asks when I don’t move as the others start.

“Yeah.” I shake my head. “I was just going over the directions again in my head.”

It’s about as dumb of an excuse as I could make. But Sophie doesn’t seem to find fault with it.

She steps forward, and—breaking the first of the instructor’s lessons—I follow her. I nearly step on her toes more times than I care to admit.

But, sooner than I would’ve expected, my feet fall into rhythm with hers. One-two, three. Her fingers rest lightly on my shoulder, heating the skin underneath my flannel. Her other hand is tucked in mine. Her fingers seem so soft, so delicate against my work-hardened palms.

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