Page 55 of Pour Decisions
JD’s eyes narrow. The irritation under his stormy expression is so intense that I’m torn between surprise and pleasure that he’s mad on my behalf.
JD might be a solid dancer, but it’s not his thing. He’s willing to do it for me, though. My ex was my “type”—or at least my pre-JD type of a vaguely artsy guy—but he wasn’t willing to stretch beyond his little box of theater. And god forbid he showed interest in anything I was interested in. Even going to a dance performance was out of the question for us without him making me feel like he was doing me a favor for taking me out once a month.
“Okay, changing the topic,” I say, going for a turn. “Because I don’t want to think of him when I’m with you.”
“Good.” He catches me, putting his hand around my waist. “Back to dancing. Did you stop because of your knee?”
“Pretty much. Or at least that brought it to a screeching halt.” Memories of those days make my head feel hazy. It wasn’t long after our breakup and I was lost on basically every front in my life. “Losing dance when I was in that time in my life sucked, but if I hadn’t been injured, I wouldn’t have discovered physical therapy as a career option. And to be real, the professional dancer life would have eaten me alive.”
“But you’re an incredible dancer,” he says, so sweet and sincere.
I was good, but not so good that I’d be cast left and right or join a top-tier company. I’m a decent singer, but not nearly good enough to book musicals without a ton of extra practice.
“Thank you, but casting directors would probably disagree. I went to some auditions and they were brutal.” I shudder at the memories. “I pushed myself too hard. And it’s not like I could get rest and auditionandpay the bills consistently. So physical therapy was the best path. I’m glad I took it because dance just became fun. And I healed my injury too.”
“I’m glad you found it.” The music shifts to something slower. “Because we found each other again.”
I smile and tuck myself against him. I could stay here forever, gently rocking and barely even dancing. I had moments of calm like this in my marriage, but it was a forced calm—meditation, a hot bath, whatever it took to ease the ball of stress inside me. This is a new level of calm. Of safe. I can just be myself and not do mental gymnastics to keep myself happy.
We dance for a while longer, until we have to leave for our dinner reservation. I’m glad my dress has a little stretch to it, because the moment we walk into the restaurant, I know I’m going to destroy a plate of whatever they have. It smells like heaven, and all the plates going by look delicious.
The food is just as good as it looks—spicy and authentically Cajun. We don’t have room for dessert, so we take some bread pudding to go.
“Thank you for putting this second, because I’m going to lay the fuck down once we get back to the room and digest like a snake that just ate a massive rat,” I say when we get into the elevator at the hotel.
“Good, because that’s my plan too.”
After I wash off my makeup, we undress—I steal one of his shirts, and he strips down to his boxers—and climb into bed again. We slide into our spots like we always did back then, with him as the big spoon.
When we were together the first time, we probably would have finished off the night with another round of sex. But tonight, both of us are passed out in seconds in a food coma. We can always have more fun in the morning.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
JD
I takea long sip of my third coffee of the day, looking at Bubba across the room. He’s passed out in his bed, paws twitching as he dreams. Every time he goes to Waylon’s, he gets tuckered out by playing all day with Duke and Murphy.
Would Waylon want to watch Bubba more? The overnight trip with Kat was one of the best I’ve had in a long time. Everything went exactly as I wanted it to, and more. Not having to worry about waking up early or getting from place to place let me relax fully. That and fucking the daylights out of Katrina over and over again.
Between that and the fact that I’ve finally been able to get back into the gym, I’m starting to feel loose. Relaxed, almost, even though the workout was hardly as intense as mine used to be. But it felt good to be able to dosomethingwithout nearly falling to my knees from a back spasm.
A knock on my doorframe pulls my eyes away from Bubba. It’s my uncle Jim, from finance.
“Did you get a chance to weigh in on those numbers for the upgrades to the bar and distillery?” he asks.
“Not yet, no.” The spreadsheet with a thousand tabs is haunting me.
My uncle sighs. “Usually you’d be done by now.”
“I had things to do this weekend, and I didn’t get to it,” I say, my tone short. My good mood disappears in an instant. “You asked for it to be done by Wednesday, so you’ll get it Wednesday.”
He narrows his eyes at me for a moment, and I regret my tone. Jim isn’t going to take over the entire company, but he's still my uncle. I can’t be a huge asshole to him and expect word to not travel back to Dad.
“Wednesday,” I say again, my tone more measured. He nods.
“Good. Looking forward to it.” He leaves, and Bubba sighs.
“I know, bud. It’s exhausting,” I say to the dog, pulling up that fucking spreadsheet.
