Page 32 of That Birthday in Barbados
Chapter Eleven
“The job of feets is walking, but their hobby is dancing.”
?Amit Kalantri
Catherine
WE LEAVE THE hotel in a white van taxi. It weaves and winds the narrow Barbados roads, headlights flashing us from the right lane.
“Where are we going?” I ask, aware of the minuscule amount of distance between Anders and me on the seat behind the driver.
“Red Door,” he says. “Best club on the island.”
“Ah, there’s something I need to tell you.”
“Let me guess. You don’t dance?”
“How did you know?” I can still hear the rum punch in my voice, the way it adds a lilt to the ends of my words.
“As of tonight, your first night of being forty, you dance. Just like you now drive a Sea-Doo.”
“Then surely you know you willregret this.”
“Remember? I don’t embarrass.”
“So you’re owning the choice of taking me out dancing?”
“Damn right I am,” he says, throwing me a grin.
Realizing I’ve defeated my own argument, I sit back and watch night-cloaked Barbados roll past my window, wondering if I willbe the first reason ever Anders Walker has to be truly mortified.
*
ONE OF THE HOUSE specialty drinks is the Red Door Mule.
As it turns out, the Red Door Mule is all you need to become an incredible dancer.
Or at least, to make youthinkyou’re one.
I’ve had two, and I’m pretty sure that’s my limit, but I’m dancing. I feel liquid, free and ridiculously happy.
The dance floor is so crowded I’m all but pressed right up against Anders. Who happens to be one of the best dancers I’ve ever seen. I mean like he could be on Dancing to the Stars. I mean with.Withthe Stars.
His body loves the music. And I love his body. I lovewatchinghis body. I’m not even thinking about my own moves. I’m just following the beat, completely mesmerized by the man in front of me.
There isn’t an insecure bone in him. The music just becomes part of him. We’re two in a crowd of swaying, laughing, happy people, the music a pounding pulse in our ears, the beat deep and contagious.
Someone jostles into me from behind, and I tip forward, falling into Anders with a gasp. “Easy there,” he says, his head dipped low to my ear as he loops an arm around my waist and pulls me flush against him.
I look up, our gazes locked and searing.
I’d forgotten what physical attraction feels like.
But I am remembering. In every fiber of my being, I am remembering. It’sas if there is a magnet inside each of us, and we’re being pulled to each other at the cellular level. Our bodies dip and weave beneath the throb of the music, and I’m really hoping he never takes his arm away, never lets me go. Beneath the silk of my dress, I feel the hard sculpt of his thighs and yet further proof that all those hours on the bike have turned him into a living work of art.
A waiter brings us two more drinks, setting them on a nearby table. Anders takes my elbow and leads me over.
“My last one,” I say. “No more mules for me.”
