Chapter 17

 

Whitney

 

Martini Ranch has a large bar in the center with a restaurant on one side and dance floor on the other. Though not formal, it has great atmosphere and fantastic food. During dinner, Connor asks me about work again. The tour wasn’t exactly conducive to deep conversation, and he wants to know how I’m really doing.

How I’m doing, right now, is not so well. But work has nothing to do with it.

I tell him more or less what I told him on the tour, keeping my most difficult struggles with work to myself. I don’t tell him that in my darkest moments I think seriously about quitting because I feel too weak to stay. I don’t tell him about my dark moments at all. I decide I shouldn’t share the hard stuff. It’s too intimate, and I’m trying to hold back. That’s what we’re doing, right? Putting a fence around things?

Maybe this really is better. Not so painful.

Maybe.

As we finish our meal, I’m starting to feel anxious that it’s all about to come to an end. I’m relieved when he suggests we hop to the other side and either hang at the bar or do some dancing.

“I don’t know if you like to dance,” he says, but I’m already on my feet and grabbing his hand.

“I love to dance.”

He laughs and follows behind. I do love to dance, too, and don’t get near enough of it at home. It’s another non-entity, actually, like my non-existent love life. As I pull him onto the dance floor, the music pounding in my chest, I decide this is the perfect way to get out some of my frustration. He doesn’t want to kiss me? Fine. He can sure as hell dance with me.

The DJ is playing “Shots” by Imagine Dragons, and the song is half over. It’s a blast to dance to, though, and I let myself go. Smiling and following my lead, Connor gets into it too. This guy can move. No surprise.

So that’s what we do. The DJ is kind to me, and plays the fast songs. The ones I can’t help but move to. The ones that are helping me forget. And Connor is right there with me, still in his dress pants and shirt, dancing like the free bird he is.

We keep our distance. Until we don’t.

“Naughty Girl” by Beyonce comes on and Connor pulls me in close and throws my arms around his neck. We’re still pumping to the music, but within seconds it’s like something out of Dirty Dancing. Oh, if I’d known he could dance like this, we would’ve done nothing else the entire time we were in Spain. Of course, it’s been so long, I forgot I knew how to dance like this.

We’re rocking and swaying and everything but grinding. Our bodies are perfectly in sync as we move to the music. My cheeks are flushed and my body warm, and not just from the dancing.

When the song is over, the DJ switches to a slow song. Connor and I break apart, holding each other’s eyes and panting, deciding what to do next. He could pull a Patrick Swayze and just disappear into the crowd.

I look away. I run my hand through my hair and try to calm down my breathing. All around us, couples are swaying and we’re just standing here. I take a few deep breaths, my heart rate finally slowing. I’m still not looking at him.

I’m also not looking at him when he takes my hand and pulls me into his arms. We start swaying. It’s hesitant, almost mechanical. Hell, it’s so bad I’m having flashbacks to the junior high dances.

Eventually we soften, though, and our bodies meld together more naturally. Our movements are more in tune with the music and one another. The next song begins—“Open Arms” by Journey—and we don’t stop. We aren’t just moving our bodies to the music, our hands are moving too. Mine over his chest, his down my back. I drape my arm over his neck and he runs his hand from my elbow clear down to my waist. Our heads move closer together.

Lips parted, panting slightly, my mouth is next to his jaw and his hot breath is underneath my ear. His arm tightens around my back, he moves his hips to the music and guides my body to move along with him, knees bending, bodies dipping. We wrap in even closer.

As we dance and move, his head comes from one side of mine and switches to the other. Our lips pass within inches of each other. Still not looking at his eyes, I run my hand into his slightly-damp hair. His arms tighten around me and still we’re dancing.

His mouth is near my cheek. I turn and brush my lips over his, then keep going like I didn’t mean to do it. Like it wasn’t the stolen kiss that it was.

He snakes one hand into my hair and grips it gently as our mouths come close together. I glance up at him, see the heat in his eyes, and realize I’m luring him in deliberately now. Maybe I have been all along. Because every move of my body is drawing him closer... just like every move of his body is drawing me closer to him.

“Sorry,” I whisper, pulling my mouth away slightly, because I should respect the fact that he doesn’t want to go there. But we don’t stop dancing. A moment later, my resolve weakens because he’s the one who steals a kiss, brushing his lips on mine and then away.

Two more beats of our bodies blending together, then we press our mouths against one another and linger.

We pull away. Take a breath. Resist for another beat.

Then his mouth is on mine and I feel myself start to tip. I pull away slightly, glance up at him, then tuck my chin down.

“Connor,” I breathe. “If we’re going to stop...”

“I don’t care anymore,” he says thickly, putting his finger under my chin and tilting me up to meet him. “I’m already flying.”

Then Connor Rivers kisses me like he means it. I’m done holding back too. I wrap my arms tighter around him and we open to each other. His tongue touches mine and I’m rising up to meet him. We kiss deeply, intently, eagerly. I give in to all of it.

It might be a mistake, but I don’t care.

Some mistakes are worth making.