Page 23 of Bourbon Bliss
Cassidy’s eyes were huge, her mouth open.
I needed to say something. “Hi.” That wasn’t very good. He’d complimented me—had he called mepretty?—so the appropriate response was… “Thank you.”
He kept smiling at me, as if he didn’t even notice Cassidy. Which was exceedingly odd. Men always noticed Cassidy. She was beautiful and friendly. George didn’t know she was in a committed relationship with another man. Why wasn’t he turning to her to engage in a stimulating and perhaps flirtatious conversation?
Why was he still looking atme?
“Would you like to dance?” he asked.
My lips parted, but I had no idea what to say. No one ever asked me to dance in the Lookout.
“Why yes, she would,” Cassidy said.
Before I knew what was happening, Cassidy pulled me off the stool and shoved me at George. I squeaked, my feet getting tangled, and stumbled into him.
And then his hands—those gloriously large hands—were on me, keeping me steady. Holding me by the waist so I wouldn’t fall.
I was utterly breathless. Unable to speak. I tilted my head back so I could look up at his face. Instead of stepping away and putting a reasonable amount of distance between us, he moved closer, so our bodies almost touched.
“You all right?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Shall we?”
He led me out onto the dance floor as a new song began.Tennessee Whiskey. It was a slow song, and people paired off around us, wrapping their arms around each other to slow-dance.
“I don’t understand dancing,” I said.
“You mean you don’t know how?”
“No, this style of dancing doesn’t appear to require any particular skill. It’s just two people swaying to music. They’re barely moving their feet. Other styles of dancing require a great deal of skill and practice. I can see the merit in that. I don’t understand the purpose of this.”
One corner of his mouth hooked upward. “Are you always so logical?”
“Yes.”
“Good to know. Well, I can’t speak for everybody, but I can tell you why I like dancing.”
I kept my eyes on his face, awaiting his explanation.
“You know what? It’ll be easier if I just show you. Come here.”
He slid a hand around my waist and pulled me against him. I sucked in a breath. One hand rested on the small of my back. With his other hand, he took mine, and nestled it between us. He started to move, shifting his feet with the slow beat of the music.
Leaning down, he rested his stubbly jaw against my temple and spoke softly near my ear. “Now close your eyes.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m going to explain dancing. Trust me.”
I let my eyes drift closed. “Okay.”
“For starters, the music.”
“Chris Stapleton got his start—”
“Hold up there, June,” he said. “You’re thinking too much. Don’t think about the artist or the origin of the song. Just feel it. The beat. The way we’re moving to it. Don’t think. Just feel.”
