“Is that so?” I ask, my shoulders releasing the anxiety that had built up in them.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I give him a look. “I make everything hard? Come on, Wade. You could’ve used another word. Difficult, maybe?”
His chest rumbles with his chuckle. Each movement causes his torso to brush against mine.
“Well, you’re that too,” he says, looking down at me. “You’re just brimming with moxie.”
“My mother used to say I’m full of piss and vinegar, but moxie sounds nicer.”
He chuckles again. It’s my new favorite thing.
“What about you, Mr. Mason?”
“What about me?”
I block out the way his arm feels around me and stay focused on his face.
“Why are you so difficult?” I ask.
His forehead pulls together. “I didn’t know that I was.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m not difficult. I’m just …”
“Cantankerous?” I offer.
“No.”
“Crotchety?”
He chuckles for a third time. “No. Did I leave you alone with Gramps too long? You’re starting to sound like him with all of these random words you’re throwing around.”
I grin as we sway.
“I like old-fashioned words. They’re so much more fun than irritable or grouchy,” I say.
“None of those words define me.”
“No, but they describe you.”
He rolls his eyes but pulls me closer. A piece of paper couldn’t fit between us at this point. Every breath I take has my chest pressing against his, and I wonder if he can feel it as acutely as I can.
I relax in his arms. It isn’t deliberate or calculated, but I’m well aware of the tranquility at this moment. My cheek wants to press against his jacket, and my eyes want to fall closed. I want to sway with this man and listen to this music and feel the softness of the evening for as long as I can.
But I don’t.
Instead, I gaze up at him.
“What?” he asks, almost as if he doesn’t want to ask at all.
“Here I was thinking that you couldn’t dance.”
He hums. “Well, I think it’s safe to say you don’t know a lot of things about me.”
“Want to share them?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes, making me laugh.
The song changes to a Ray LaMontagne tune about being born to love. It’s a bit livelier than the one played before it. The choice seems to agree with Wade.
He repositions his hands, splaying his palms against me with his fingers unlocked. His hands touch my body from his wrist to his fingertips, and the contact is intoxicating.
“Do you know what I think?” I prod, gauging his reaction.
He groans.
“I think,” I say, tapping the back of his neck, “that you aren’t as testy as you make out.”
“It’s dangerous to underestimate people.”
He guides me in a circle, but I refuse to be distracted. Again.
“Do you want to know what I think?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He tries not to chuckle. “I think that you spend your time trying to figure out other people because it’s easier than trying to figure out yourself.”
I gasp. “That’s rude.”
He can’t hold it back any longer. He full-on laughs.
I thought his smile was wonderful, but his laughter is glorious.
“I’ve figured myself out, thank you very much,” I say in protest. But, despite the words, a quiver of uncertainty quakes in my soul. “I admit all the good and all the bad.”
His laughter slips away. He looks at me with a soberness that makes me shiver.
“There’s bad?” he asks.
I think, I hope, the question is rhetorical because I can’t answer it. Of course, there are bad things about me. But the fact he pretends there’s not … makes me feel good.
Grinning, I toy with the back of his hair.
“Well, there’s not a lot of bad,” I tease. “Can I ask you something?”
He groans, lifting his chin to the ceiling. “Did you get me to dance just so you could ask me a million questions?”
“That and so you’d have to touch me.”
Our bodies slow as our eyes crash into one another.
I can’t believe I said that.
The longer we stand, touching, trying to sort out my admission, the more I realize … I don’t care.
I said it. I meant it. I did want him to touch me. And I wanted it so badly that I didn’t care, don’t care, that I got it under the guise of a dance.
“I wouldn’t have had to trick you into it if you weren’t so difficult,” I say, hoping he latches on to the playful part of that and not the other.
Wade flinches. He leans back far enough that my hands can’t touch behind his head anymore.
My breathing stalls. A ball of acid swirls in my stomach as I try desperately to read his reaction.
“I’m sorry—”
“You think I don’t want to touch you?” he asks.
“Well … yes.”
He snorts, looking over my head at something in the distance.
“I shouldn’t have admitted that.” I run my hands over his shoulders and onto his chest. I press gently. “I just made things very awkward and—”