Page 50 of Changing the Playbook
“Which was also mortifying.”
“But you did it.”
“Temporary insanity.”
“The best kind.”
“Dance,” the performer interrupts, apparently unsatisfied with our sway.
Without thinking, I press closer. Mike’s hand tightens on my waist—not pulling, just… anchoring… like permission and restraint wrapped in one gesture. The heat of his palm burns through cotton, and suddenly I’m exquisitely aware of every point of contact. Hip to hip. Chest to chest.
“Stop thinking so hard,” he says.
“I’m not?—”
“You’re calculating the exact angle of your hips like there’s going to be a quiz.”
The accuracy stings. “Fine. What should I be doing?”
“Whatever feels good.”
Those three words—the exact ones from our night together—detonate in my bloodstream. The memory crashes over me: his hands, his mouth, the way he’d coaxed responses from my body I didn’t know were possible. The way he’d made me stop thinking and justfeel.
The music shifts, something slower and more sensual threading through the speakers. Mike’s other hand finds my waist. We’re properly close now, breathing the same air, and the crowd might as well have evaporated for all either of us could care right now.
“A chaperone’s going to separate us,” I say. “And tell us to find Jesus.”
Mike grins. “Jesus understands. He was all about connection.”
“Pretty sure this isn’t what he meant.”
“Biblical scholarship is very limited on his dance floor preferences.”
A laugh bubbles out of me, unexpected and genuine. With it, something loosens. My body stops fighting the rhythm. When heguides me through a turn, I just follow and trust his hands to bring me back to where I need to be, and they do every time.
“See?” He grins down at me. “Good, right?”
“Bold of you to assume.”
His laugh vibrates through me as our hips move in sync, and heat pools low in my belly. The dangerous kind. The kind that makes me want to drag him off this stage and find the nearest dark corner. Map every inch of him with my hands. Let him take me apart again, piece by piece, until thinking becomes impossible.
“The movement reveals truth,” the performer intones. “It lets people see.”
What I see is Mike looking at me like I’m precious and breakable and worth protecting all at once. Like he wants to gather me up and shield me from every hard thing while also trusting me to handle it myself. Like someone I could spend a hell of a long time getting to know.
What I see terrifies me.
The music stops.
We don’t.
We stand frozen, still wrapped around each other while silence stretches.
“What did you learn about your partner?” The performer asks.
Mike doesn’t look away from me. “She’s afraid of letting go. Started out holding on so tight I thought she might leave bruises—” I try to pull back, but his arms keep me close. “—but once she figured out I wasn’t going to let her fall, it was magic.”
The crowd makes approving noises and offers a polite applause while my face burns. He’s just announced my entire psychological profile to a bar full of strangers. Wrapped my deepest fears in a dance metaphor and somehow made it sound like poetry.
