Page 62 of Sew Matcha in Love
Zaki tugged me up from my seat gently and tucked my arm into his. “Splendid.” Then he bent to whisper in my ear, his warm breath coaxing goosebumps to make an appearance. “How’s my impression so far?”
“Of?” I teased. Above us, the chandeliers glittered like the stars in my eyes, illuminating the grandeur. The melody of the strings on stage summoned me like a piper as Zaki guided me through the dancing couples into the center of the dance floor.
“You wound me. My impression of a gentleman, of course. I risked my reputation watching clips of Regency films on the plane. Tell me I didn’t waste my time?” In one swift motion, he placed my free hand on his shoulder, his right hand settled lightly at my waist, and the left held mine firmly but gently.
“Smooth move,” I murmured. “You learned that from a movie clip?”
He waggled his eyebrows. “Not that one. That’s all Marsch. Impressed?”
I fluttered my eyelashes. “By your roguish move and charm? I’m on guard, for sure.”
His expression changed from teasing to serious. “You never have to be on guard with me, Wynna-bun.”
I swallowed, surprised by the intensity behind his statement. “Noted.”
The symphony transitioned to a waltz, and his expression lit up again. “I should warn you,” he said softly, “I’m an expert dancer.”
He guided me effortlessly, confident and smooth. I clung to him, relishing the strength beneath my hand on his shoulder and grateful for the lacy fabric of my glove, which was surely absorbing the clamminess.
Was there anything this man couldn’t do? It was as if the music flowed through him, and I relaxed into the rhythm ofthe dancing, not needing to count and putting my trust in him completely to lead.
“Where did you learn to dance like this?” I asked. “You’re a natural.”
“I was born waltzing,” he boasted.
“Really?” I challenged, my brow knitting.
“It’s you, Wynna-bun. You’re making me look good,” he countered.
“Hmm.” I wasn’t convinced, but if he didn’t want to tell me, it was easy to assume he’d learned to dance with his ex, and I for sure wasn’t going to bring her up during this perfect moment.
“Look at me, Wynn.”
“It’s not a paso doble,” I protested. “No eye contact required.” But my eyes found his again, and the warmth radiating there blurred my thoughts. For what it was worth, wecouldhave been dancing the paso the way he was looking at me.
“I can dance that, too,” he challenged. “Do you want to see my best matador moves?”
Whew.
Okay.
“Maybe another time,” I squeaked. If he kept talking like that, I’d lose my ability to form coherent thoughts, never mind witty replies.
As we box-stepped and twirled, the room and the people blurred around us, the hems of their gowns swept the polished wood, and the very small space between became charged with an electricity that made my breath catch each time his hand adjusted slightly at my waist or our eyes met for just a beat too long. The song began to build to its crescendo, and he pulled me just a fraction closer, enough to catch the scent of his soap or shampoo or?—
The instruments quieted as the music changed to an upbeat but slow cover of Maroon 5’s “Girls Like You” in the style of theVitamin Strings Quartet, and I relaxed against him, daring to stretch my arm up past his shoulder to cup the back of his neck.
His look of surprise at my forwardness made me regret the action, but I didn’t retract, waiting to see what he would do.
Nothing. He did nothing.
Oh my.
I turned my head to my left to catch my breath and jumped when I felt the hair on his cheek graze mine. “Three dances in a row.” He clucked his tongue, the soft vibrations causing an encore from my goosebumps. “Scandalous. People will talk.”
“What shall we do about it?” I whispered back.
“I’d like to keep dancing with you. If there’s room on your dance card?”
