Page 37 of Pucking the Single Dad
"There's nothing to—" Brad started.
"Your lipstick's on his neck, Serena."
Brad scrubbed at his throat frantically. I wanted to phase through the floor.
"I'll go first," I managed. "You wait five minutes."
"Ten," Brad corrected. "Fifteen."
"An hour," Theo suggested. "Give you time to maybe acknowledge you're both insane."
We ignored him, returning to the ballroom like we hadn't just detonated everything. Patricia attached herself to Brad immediately, her hands everywhere, and I forced myself to join a cluster of team wives discussing school fundraisers.
"So you and Brad?" Kelly, one of the team's wives, asked without preamble. "When's the wedding?"
"We're not—"
"Honey, that man just watched you walk away like you were taking his soul with you."
"He's looking at Patricia," I pointed out.
"He's looking through Patricia. At you. While she's basically performing CPR on his thigh." Kelly took a contemplative sip. "It's like watching someone try to defuse a bomb while their house burns down."
Brad said something to Patricia. She laughed, bright and false, her grip tightening. He said something else. Her smile faltered. Then he was moving—extracting himself from her grasp with the determination of someone escaping quicksand.
Patricia followed, her hand catching his sleeve. "Brad, we were just—"
"I need to—" He pulled free, not even finishing the sentence, crossing the ballroom like a man possessed.
The team wives went silent as Brad arrived at our circle, his presence creating a force field of tension.
"Serena." Just my name, but it sounded like a complete sentence.
"Brad."
Patricia materialized behind him, her smile sharp enough to perform surgery. "Brad, the coach wants to discuss—"
"Later." He didn't look at her. Couldn't look away from me. "Dance with me."
It wasn't a question.
"I don't—"
His hand extended between us, steady despite everything. "Please."
Kelly made a sound that might have been a squeal. Patricia's face went through several stages of grief in rapid succession.
I took his hand.
The band was playing something slow and dangerous. Brad pulled me onto the floor, and suddenly we were too close, my hand in his, his other hand finding my waist like it belonged there.
"This is a terrible idea," I whispered.
"The worst," he agreed, pulling me closer.
"People are staring."
"Let them."
