Page 62 of Lovesick
Since everybody seems to be in their own little world, I take his hands and swing them in tandem with mine. “Dance with me,” I slur.
Crew’s stoic front falters, and a blush sprinkles his cheeks like he’s been caught watching cat videos and his manliness card is going to be revoked any second.
Before he can answer me, Harlan pipes up, “Crew doesn’t dance.”
I pout and let go of Crew as disappointment blizzards through me. It’s the first thing I’ve felt since I fast-tracked past tipsy and shot straight into drunkenness.
Irelyn makes apishnoise. “Bullshit. Everyone dances.”
If there’s one person in this world more stubborn than me, it’s Crew, and we’re finally on good terms. I’m not going to force him to do something he doesn’t want to do.
When I turn away, however, Crew’s fingers settle on my wrist, and he spins me back around so that I’m facing him, then reels me into his body. I yelp in surprise, bracing one hand against his chest, willing the room to stop rotating underneath my feet.
“I thought you didn’t dance,” I say, feeling his heart skitter underneath my palm.
“I do for you.”
Crew pulls some impressive dance moves out of God knows where, flicking his arm out to the side and sending me spiraling a foot until I’m breathless, my hand still in his. Then—with effortless strength—he curls his arm back toward himself, taking me with him and subjecting me to another set of turns. When the momentum catches up to me, he dips me, keeping a secure hold on my back so I don’t go crashing to the floor.
I blink, looking up at the face of the man I once called my enemy. Melting into his embrace is an autopilot response. It feels like I’ve been chasing happiness for as long as I can remember, and it’s been under my nose this whole time—sequestered in the clear, serene waters of his eyes.
Holy shit. I had no idea he could move like that.
My tongue doesn’t seem to be working. “You?—”
He lifts me upright as if I’m weightless. “Are a man of many talents?”
“Are like nobody I’ve ever met before,” I finish, awestruck. My heart starts to palpitate, but it’s the least of my concerns right now.
Crew, uncharacteristically, doesn’t rub the compliment in my face. Instead, flattery paints the tips of his ears red, and he tries to brush it off. “You’re drunk,” he jokes, his velvet-soft voice curling around what sounds like concern.
“Yup! But I’m no liar!” I boop him on the nose.
Crew grabs both of my shoulders and stares deep into my eyes. Not in the romantic way either. “Shit, Mer. Your pupils are dilated like crazy.”
I sigh dreamily. “Your eyes are so pretty.”
“Are you listening to yourself? You’re not even insulting me. At least give me a backhanded compliment.”
“Why would I do that? That’s mean.”
“Dear God, it’s worse than I thought.”
He’s so funny. And handsome. And charming. He’s thewhole package. Why was I ever resisting him? We’d be a total power couple. Me, the dance major. Him, the NHL-bound hockey star. It’s like a romance book come to life.
Breaking free from his hypnotic eye fuckery, I tug on his arm, though it’s the equivalent of trying to move a solid wall. “I want to keep dancing!” I whine petulantly.
He brushes his thumb lovingly over my cheek. “Princess, you have no idea how much I’d love to keep dancing with you, but right now, I need to start sobering you up.”
A string of hiccups impedes my sentence as my vision starts to fuzz around the edges—like a long-forgotten memory buoying to the surface of the subconscious. Nausea practically body-slams me into the next life. “But I don’t want to somb…sob…er up.”
“I know, but doesn’t a warm, comfy bed sound nice? I’ll even tuck you in.”
I think Crew is gentle parenting me. And I may be dumb, but I’m not stupid.
“Are you asking me to sleep with you?” I tease, waggling my eyebrows.
He scrubs a hand down his face, sighing in frustration. “No, I?—”
