Chapter Twenty-Two
–Haley–
“What are you doing?” I hiss at Fletcher, when his front presses against my back. “I don’t know sambas or salsas or whatever.”
“Not yet.”
“But—” I protest, despite my entire body heating up from his touch.
He reaches around and touches a finger to my lips. “No talking.”
A thrill shoots through my body. I have no idea what’s about to happen, and I really like this feeling. All around us, people are watching the dancers less and becoming dancers more, getting into their moves and the music. Fletch keeps me turned around, my back to him. He lifts my arms around his neck, and then both his hands are locked firmly on my hips.
His feet move in a pattern that I don’t know. I watch them closely, trying to keep up, but Fletch slides a hand up my body and lifts my chin so I’m now looking at a couple dancing in front of us.
“Eyes up,” he whispers into my ear. A shiver runs down my back. “Feel it, don’t watch.”
My stomach is a ball of knots, but I draw in a deep breath and close my eyes. With Fletch’s hands guiding my hips, it’s not difficult to fall into a rhythm with him.
“Good. You got it.” Fletcher’s hands leave my hips, and then he’s sliding closer, pressing us together. I swallow back a gasp at the close contact—I mean the couple in front us is basically going all the way with clothes on. Fletch’s fingers glide down my arms, his warm breath against my neck. He unclasps my hands from his neck and spins me around. It isn’t until we’re face-to-face that I notice his lack of glasses. My own cheeks warm. I don’t know what’s happening, but it’s a lot. Maybe too much.
I drop my gaze to the space between our feet. “I’m not putting money in your pants.”
Fletch lifts my chin again until I have to look at him. He’s got a hand around my waist, and then he clasps my other hand in his. “Come on, Haley. Relax. Let go.”
The fear rises up in me again. It’s exactly the same as when I couldn’t kiss him. It’s like 90 percent of me is dying to do it and the remaining 10 percent just eats the rest in one big bite.
But you know what? Not tonight. This whole situation is practically otherworldly. I don’t have to be my normal self here.
“I step in, you step back,” Fletch says, not breaking eye contact.
I misstep a couple of times, but I quickly fall into the pattern with him. He recites counts into my ear, keeping me in time. Moving in unison like this, it feels like flying. Fletch lifts my arm over my head and spins me in a half circle. He’s behind me again, our hips grinding together. I close my eyes and allow the faces and noise to dissolve around me. Fletch’s warm fingers grip my hips and then journey upward. This is not how he danced with the middle-aged lady only moments ago.
When he turns me around again, our eyes lock, and he’s staring so intensely, like he’d done earlier with the girl who vanished back stage. I melt into him, close enough for my lips to brush his neck.
“I could do it now,” I whisper right into his ear. “I could kiss you.”
“Don’t.” He presses his hand more firmly against my back, bringing us even closer. “It’s against the rules. The bouncers will toss you out.”
The faces appear all around me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious all over again. All these women are watching me, wondering why I have no idea what I’m doing. Fletch must have sensed my nerves, because he brings me close again and says, “Want to show off a little? You trust me, right?”
My trust has never been the problem.
My mouth barely falls open, preparing to answer, when Fletch hoists me up on his shoulder like he did in the park the other night. He spins around, and two of the other dancer guys appear beside Fletch—either Paco or Rowdy or Danny.
From up high, I spot Jamie and Leo watching us with their mouths hanging open. They’re both standing up straight and alert like they’re poised to intervene if needed.
Fletch slides me down the front of his body, like he did the other night, but this time, he wraps one of my legs around his waist and pulls the other up to his shoulder. Before I catch my breath, he’s dipping me backwards, some of my hair dangling loose from its bun. I laugh. I can’t help it. Everything about this moment is so bizarre, so unplanned and unlike the rest of my life, so far out of my comfort zone, and yet it’s the most fun I’ve ever had.
He brings me back up again just as the final beats of the song play out. He’s holding me in place, our foreheads touching, hearts pounding together, both of us breathing hard. And this time, it takes everything I have to not close that gap between our mouths.
God, those eyes…is that how a guy is supposed to look at a girl? If so, I don’t think I need to see anything else in my entire life ever again. His hand drifts to my cheek, he leans closer, but stops. Disappointment washes over me. Fletch releases my leg, letting it fall back to the ground, preventing me from flashing the crowd. I finally peel my gaze from him just in time to catch two women behind him, stuffing bills in his waistband and a pair of red panties into his pocket.
An older woman with a long, brightly colored skirt pries Fletch and me apart and then shoves him toward a tall, dark-haired girl, probably college aged. Fletch immediately grabs hold of the girl, grinning at her and grasping her hips like he’d done with me. I stumble backwards, a lump rising in my throat.
It’s a show. It’s all a show.
My cheeks are flaming, from the workout and from the dozens of pairs of eyes looking me over. I spin quickly and head for the door. I’m pushing it open when I feel the presence of Jamie and Leo behind me. The cool summer night air hits me in the face, and I walk as quickly as possible across the crowded parking lot to a picnic table in the field behind the warehouse.
I’m a calm person by nature, but I’m not immune to a temperamental outburst. And that’s exactly what happens—me outbursting.
“God, I fucking hate my head sometimes,” I snap at anyone who’s listening. A few tears tumble from my eyes, infuriating me as I plop down on top of the picnic table and look at Jamie and Leo. “Why am I crying? What’s wrong with me?”
Leo shakes his head, and Jamie lifts his hands in surrender. Both guys look extremely uncomfortable.
“He did dance a lot closer to you than with the forty-year-old soccer mom,” Jamie says.
I laugh and wipe the remaining loose tears away. “Thanks.”
“It’s not a strip club, apparently,” Leo says, sitting beside me. “Private rooms are for lessons with dancers.”
“So they say,” Jamie adds. “Some chick just asked me to dance, and then said she’d give me some private lessons.”
Everything inside my head is so confusing, I’m not ready to chat about it. “Why don’t you guys go back inside and scope it out some more. I just need a minute of fresh air, okay?”
Leo glances longingly at the building, but Jamie hesitates. “You shouldn’t sit here alone.”
I hold a hand out. “Give me my keys and my phone.”
Jamie removes the items I’d stowed in his pockets earlier and hands them over. I hold up the tiny spray bottle and my phone. “Pepper spray. Cell phone. I’ll be fine. I won’t go anywhere, I swear.”
They head back toward the building, and I lay across the picnic table, staring up at the stars. The temperature is probably sixty or sixty-five, clear skies. God, I love summers in Minnesota. I keep the pepper spray clutched in one hand and try my best to relax and enjoy the distant music.
A while later—I have no idea how long—I hear a familiar voice. “You stole my spot.”
I sit up quickly, adjusting my dress, and Fletcher hops up onto the table beside me. I look him over and slide back, putting more distance between us.
“You found your shirt,” I say. “And cleaned out your pockets…”
“Two really big hockey players made fun of my vest.” His words are casual, but his face reveals some concern.
“Jamie and Leo won’t tell anyone,” I reassure him. “I know they won’t.”
He’s got a nearly empty water bottle in one hand and an unopened one in the other. He hands it to me and waits for me to take a drink.
“So…” I have a million questions for him and no idea how to start. “Where did you learn to dance like that? Is it ballroom or what?”
“My grandmother,” Fletch says, and as if sensing that tonight especially I need more from him, he goes on. “When I switched to homeschooling in third grade, she decided I would take dance lessons from her every day. Said it would make me more confident.” He shakes his head and laughs. “I never thought dancing would do any good with schoolyard bullies, but I didn’t mind learning. As long as I didn’t have to practice with Braden around.”
I pick at the buckle on my shoe. “It’s like you have this whole different life here. Is that why you don’t tell anyone?”
“Maybe. But it’s also just Juniper Falls, you know?”
“No, I don’t know.”
He hesitates, then with a sigh explains. “Our town lives for gossip, and that’s all fun and games if you’re not the center of that gossip. My family prefers to stay out of the town’s daily news, only…”
“Only what?”
“Only that didn’t happen,” he says, a hint of anger in his voice. “My grandmother nearly got deported years ago after a bunch of people in Juniper Falls started gossiping about her legal status and questions surrounding it.”
“Her legal status?” And yeah, I’m on the edge of my seat now.
“She came here from South America with her dance troupe for a tour when she was a teenager. Against her family’s wishes. And then she decided to stay,” Fletch says. “Even after she married my grandpa, people talked about whether it was real or just a hoax to win her legal status. And then my mom…”
His voice trails off. He can’t do it. Even after everything I’ve done to prove myself trustworthy, he can’t open up. We stare at each other for a long moment. Something in my expression must have offered him enough confidence in me, because to my surprise, he finishes what he started to say. “My mom got pregnant with me in high school. I mean, she was eighteen. But still in high school.”
I work hard not to laugh. “Seriously? Our town is no stranger to pregnant teens, never has been from what I’ve heard.”
“Yeah, I know that.” Fletch nods like he’d expected me to say this. “But my dad is twenty years older.”
The hint of a smile falls from my face. No wonder he made a point of mentioning that she was legal age. “I guess that’s different.”
Fletcher studies me. “You didn’t know?”
I shake my head. “It’s old news now.”
Other than the texting between my mom and me from the hospital after I drove Fletch, my parents haven’t been around for us to have a conversation where Fletch’s name gets dropped in. But I know exactly how it would go. I can even hear my mother’s voice inside my head, “Fletcher Scott? Haven’t heard that name in a while. You know there was quite the scandal surrounding that boy’s birth back in the day. Grandma must have lit a hundred candles at mass for her family.”
Then my dad’s voice follows Mom’s. “Everyone had it out for Scott, said it was criminal, going after a high-school girl. And you know his mother was an illegal…”
“And just when things had calmed down for their families, someone goes and tries to kill that poor little boy,” imaginary Mom adds. “But with all those allergies, it’s a wonder he even made it that long in school.”
I close my eyes, guilt punching me in the gut. Guilt for a conversation that doesn’t even exist. But it could easily exist. I know this for sure, because similar conversations happen nightly in my house. And I’m always right there, taking it all in. Now I get that saying about gossip. That even letting yourself hear it is toxic. Look what it’s done to Fletcher’s life…he doesn’t trust anyone in Juniper Falls. This explains so much. The weight of accepting responsibility for the wrongs done to Fletch’s family on behalf of my entire town is a bit too much, and I have to change the subject before I end up hating myself and where I come from.
“What’s with the panties in the pockets?”
He gives me a weary look, his cheeks heating up. “It’s a long story.”
“I’m all ears.” I lean back on my elbows, forgetting that he probably has to go back in there. It’s not anywhere near midnight yet.
“I’ll give you the short version.” He runs a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t legal for anyone to get too intimate with me. So, it became this thing…handing over their panties so I could see how turned on—”
I slap a hand over his mouth and close my eyes briefly. “Okay, I get it.”
Fletch takes my hand from his mouth and holds on to it. His eyes search mine. “Want to come back inside? Dance with me again?”
“Yes,” I say immediately and then shake my head. “No. I mean no.”
“No?” He pauses like he’s waiting for me to explain. I totally would if I could figure it out. “What’s wrong, Haley?”
“You.” I pull my hand away from him. “You and your stupid hands and stupid mouth. And your stupid abs.”
He leans closer, the corner of his mouth popping up into a sexy half smile. “You liked dancing with me. Admit it.”
“Yes! I liked it. It was fun. So fun.” I jump down from the table and move farther away from Fletch. “And then it turned into this big deal inside my head. And you…you can slide up behind anyone in the room and look like I feel right now.”
His jaw tightens, and I exhale before retracting some of my words. “I’m not judging you, Fletch. I wish I could be more like you. That’s all I’m saying.”
His eyes lock with mine again. “You should kiss me.”
“What?” I fold my arms over my chest. “No way. Besides, we already know how that will go.”
“I think you can do it now,” he says. “You danced with panty pushers—that’s what we call them backstage, by the way—and you were totally hot. Totally in the moment. I think you’re ready for this. No strings attached. Just a kiss.”
A grin spreads across my face. “I was totally hot? Really?”
He nods. “Way, way hot.”
I walk a couple of steps in his direction, my pulse pounding. “Hotter than your flexible partner?”
“Without a doubt.”
I press my sweaty palms against my dress, drying them discreetly. “You were hot, too.”
“Really?” he asks, less confident than I’ve seen him all night.
I nod. “I totally get the panty thing.”
Fletch arches a dark eyebrow. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, but I’m keeping mine.” I take a deep breath and stand right between his legs, my hands resting on his thighs again.
“You only have a little farther to go.” He whispers the words right against my lips, and they’re magnetic, pulling me in.
I close my eyes and try to be here and now. Not five years in the future. Not naming our future children or plotting career plans for us. But then I freeze up again. “Should I use tongue, or maybe it should be really quick?”
“Do whatever you feel like doing,” he says.
Okay, but what if he does whatever he feels like doing, and I’m left trying to keep up or match skills?
“Don’t move okay?” I order. “Keep your hands on the table.”
His fingers curl around the edge of the picnic table, showing his willingness to do this my way. I count to three inside my head, sixth-grade spin-the-bottle flashbacks playing on repeat. Then I lean in and touch my lips to his. A millisecond later, I’m pulling back again. There. I did it.
Fletch’s eyes are still open, and when I stare into them again, a fire builds inside me and the invisible brick wall falls down around us. I reach out and grip his face, pulling our lips together again and muffling the really sexy noise that escapes from the back of his throat. With even less inhibition, I slide my hands down his neck, enjoying the feel of his skin beneath my fingertips. His fingers brush my elbows, forgetting my earlier command, but then he quickly returns to gripping the table. I pull away again to tell him he doesn’t have to keep holding the table, but then I look from his face to his now-white knuckles, and a surge of power zaps through me. I kind of like calling the shots. My fingers find their way to the back of his hair. and I bring our lips together again. A groan escapes Fletch’s mouth, and his lips part, allowing our tongues to mingle.
Fletch slides farther back on the table, and I follow him. His hands attempt to lift several times, and then he re-grips the table. Finally, with both of us breathing heavily, our pulses racing, I tell him he can touch me.
In no time at all, his arms are around my waist, lifting me up onto his lap. My dress gets hiked up, and my legs wrap around Fletch. He leans my head back and plants kisses up and down the front of my neck until I’m ready to go completely crazy.
“Jesus,” he mumbles. “You are so beautiful.”
My insides warm at those words, and then we’re kissing harder, more intensely, the stars twinkling above us. Then something twists inside me, a weight pressing against my chest. I slow down my movements and eventually we pull apart.
I squeeze my eyes shut, willing away the feelings. All the feelings that aren’t supposed to be here.
Be gone. You’re wrong. Go away.
Fletch rests his hands on my cheeks. “Haley?”
I shake my head, refusing to open my eyes.
“You’re not supposed to cry.” Concern leaks into his voice.
I didn’t even know I was crying, but the evidence is clear when I feel his thumbs brush under my eyes, wetness beneath them. “I’m sorry. I told you, I suck at this.”
“It’s just a kiss, Haley.”
I nod and then open my eyes. Any remaining anger fades when I see all the worry on Fletcher’s face. He’s just as confused as I am. He doesn’t want to hurt me. He wants to be honest. I get it. It’s other things that I don’t get.
“You don’t feel this…?” I hesitate, grappling for the best words. “This weight on your chest.” I rest a hand over my heart. “Like you’ve just screwed up something or lost something you cared about.”
“No.” He slides a hand into my hair, working his fingers all the way through it. “I feel light, actually.”
My forehead wrinkles as I study his face. How could we kiss like that—equal passion—and have completely different feelings? “Maybe it’s the blood draining from your head to…lower regions.”
He laughs. “That’s possible.” In one swift movement, Fletch stands with me still on his lap and turns around to give me my seat on the table again. He sits down on the bench and brings me to the edge so he can keep his arms around my back. “I have to go back inside soon. I only get a thirty-minute break.”
“Yeah, okay.” The weight presses harder on my chest, imagining all the girls he could dance with or kiss like he kissed me. What is wrong with me? I give his shoulders a shove and force a smile. “Go, before you get in trouble.”
“Come with me,” he says. “Please.”
“I’ll probably cry again.” I meant that sarcastically, but it’s totally possible.
“You won’t cry.” Fletch stands and leans in, his mouth hovering near mine. “But you will look hot and sexy and probably feel hot and sexy, which is never a bad thing.”
I’m smiling now. I mean, how can I not be? I reach up and touch Fletch’s cheek. “I like you like this.”
“Like what? Hot and sexy?” he guesses.
“Not an asshole.” I get brave and pull his mouth to mine again.
Fletch responds by parting my lips and lifting me up off the picnic table. He continues kissing me, my feet dangling a couple of inches off the ground, his mouth working mine like he’s got all the time in the world, like he’s not on the tail end of a thirty-minute break. I pull away before my panties become completely ruined. He’s way too good at kissing for me to come out of this alive.
“For someone who was afraid to touch me,” I say, “you really seem to like picking me up.”
Fletch grins and places my feet on the ground. “You’re easy to lift. And my partner is pregnant, so I don’t get to throw her around as much.”
My mouth falls open in shock. “You got your partner pregnant?” Oh my God, this is so Dirty Dancing.
Fletch rolls his eyes. “Her fiancé did. And she hasn’t actually told me yet, but the signs are all there. I know they want two kids. She’s already got one.”
“So, you and her aren’t like…?” I turn away and look at the building.
“Uh-uh,” Fletch says.
I glance sideways at him. “But you looked so…convincing.”
“It’s an act.” He takes my hand and pulls me in close like he did on the dance floor. “We make up stories, and we get really into the characters.”
“Just like So You Think You Can Dance,” I say, already feeling my stomach flip over again from being in Fletch’s arms. The realization behind his answer hits me hard, and I sink back into that weighty feeling. “So, it’s probably like that with me, too.”
“Haley,” he warns. “Stop doing that. I’m good at convincing other people it’s real when it isn’t. And you’re good at convincing yourself it’s real.”
“But we’re not working together,” I point out. “We’ve been flirting since I nearly tumbled off your barn roof. It’s not all acting. So, what is it?”
“Attraction.” Fletch slides a hand up my back and into my hair. “Curiosity.” He dips me back again and kisses my neck. “Hormones.”
“But isn’t that how most relationships start?”
“Maybe, if you let it,” Fletch agrees. He stands up straighter and presses a hand between my shoulder blades, forcing my spine to straighten. “You’ve got a decent frame.”
“And you don’t?”
“Have a decent frame?” Fletch says, though I can tell by his face that he knows what I meant. “My frame is excellent. My grandmother made me practice with a back brace and weights on my shoulders.”
I shake my head. “I meant you don’t let relationships begin.”
“No, I don’t,” Fletch says firmly.
I don’t press him for more details—he’s already spilled a lot tonight—but I know, beneath that answer is a story. Maybe Fletch and I have more in common than I realized.