Page 64 of The Persistence of Thornes
Another ten seconds or so pass before he releases me.
He straightens, buckles up again, then pulls back onto the road. When we’re on the interstate again, he settles his hand on my knee, a warm reassurance, but he makes no move to skim it higher.
His easy, carefree grin returns. “Now that that’s settled, let’s get on with our date.”
The studio is located in a small building across from a small strip of stores, including a pizza shop, a liquor store, and a pharmacy.
The sign on the door readsFrederica’s Ballroom Dance Studio.
As he creeps through the parking lot, I can’t help but worry that I’m going to make a fool of myself. Step on toes. Fall. Or worse. I’m not even sure whatworseis, but if it’s possible, there’s a chance I’ll discover it.
Caleb gets out, and before I’ve even slipped into my shoes, he pulls my door open.
“Let me get that,” he says, taking one heel from me.
I open my mouth to protest, but he arches a brow, silencing me, and slips it onto my foot. I feel like Cinderella.
“Thank you.”
He offers me his hand, and though my instinct is to climb out on my own, to prove to him that I don’t need the help, I take it.
Though the front of the studio is nothing but floor-to-ceiling windows, they’re covered by curtains, so at least I don’t have to worry about any passersby witnessing what I’m sure will be my ultimate humiliation.
Hand in hand, we enter the studio. The first thing I notice is the sweet vanilla scent from the diffuser on thecheck-in desk. The next is the kind smile radiating from the woman standing there.
“Hi,” she says, her tone light. “Checking in for the beginner ballroom class?”
“Yes,” Caleb answers, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze.
She slides a clipboard over to him. “Sign in here, please.”
He scribbles both our names down in annoyingly neat handwriting that makes my penmanship look like that of a third-grader.
When he’s finished, she spins the clipboard around, peers down at it, then writes our names in Sharpie on two nametag stickers. “Just put these on your shirts and enter through those doors there.” She points to our left. “Enjoy.”
Caleb finally releases my hand to peel the backing off my name sticker. He reaches out like he’s going to affix it to my chest, but before he makes contact, he jerks his head once and pulls back. With a sheepish smile, he holds it out with a thumb and forefinger instead.
I struggle not to hide my smile. The man is almost thirty, incredibly intelligent and kind, but he gets flustered over the idea of accidentally touching my boob if he puts the sticker on me? It’s adorable.
Once we’re both wearing our nametags, he takes my hand again and leads me into the designated studio.
Holding his hand like this feels right, and that alone is terrifying.
If I let this man in and he changes his mind, he could so easily shatter my world. And a little voice in my head tells me that I’m more like my mom than I’d like to believe. IfI’m dependent on a man for my self-worth, I’m no better than she is.
When I catch sight of several couples mingling near a refreshments table, my stomach cramps.
Iloathesmall talk.
Caleb, thankfully, doesn’t drag me over to the other couples. Instead, we keep to the wall just the two of us.
I give his hand a squeeze in thanks. He may not realize it, but small gestures like this mean the world.
He looks down at me, his fingers grazing the curve of my jaw. “How are you doing?” he murmurs, a stray piece of blond hair falling over his forehead. “You’re okay with this, right?”
Though I was pretty certain before, I know without a doubt now that if I wasn’t okay with it, he wouldn’t hesitate to escort me back out.
“Nervous, but I’m okay.”
