Justin’s warm, rough fingers cradle my hand like it’s something precious. I blindly follow him through the bar to the dance floor. He could probably lead me right out the door and into the night, and I wouldn’t protest.
It’s the first time we’ve touched skin to skin for more than a minute, and my body responds like he’s flipped a switch, flooding light where darkness has loitered for months.
The warmth from his hand around mine is the sun breaking through storm clouds.
On the small stage—only two feet higher than the rest of the floor—is a quartet of older men playing old fashioned country tunes. One has a slide guitar splayed in front of him. The tunes are upbeat, but the lyrics I catch could drive anyone to drink whiskey for breakfast.
Justin leads me to the far edge, where it’s less crowded with couples rotating counter-clockwise around the floor.
“Trust me.” With a jerk to my hand, he spins me around to face him. He lifts my left hand to his shoulder and rests his on my back near my bra strap. It’s a formal position with lots of room between our bodies for the Holy Spirit. Or at least the big gap makes me think of dancing supervised by Catholic nuns.
“What’s so funny?” The corners of his mouth curl up.
“Nothing,” I say with a shake of my head. “I’m nervous.”
“Don’t be. I’ve got you.” The smile he gives me is nothing but sweet and genuine.
“All I ask is you catch me before my face plants on the floor.”
He barks out a chuckle. “Promise.”
“Swear on your belt buckle. Or Cisco.”
He’s still chuckling when he meets my eyes. “Take me at my word.”
Beneath his black Stetson, his eyes are dark as a night without stars. It would be so easy to get lost in them forever. He begins talking again and I try to focus on his words and not the trifecta of his eyes, his hand on my back, and mine touching his shoulder.
“We’re going to go quick quick, then slow slow. Step on your right foot first.” He lifts and lowers his feet to demonstrate. “Follow me. When I want you to turn, I’ll put a little pressure on right here. Can you feel that?”
Yes, yes I can. I nod as he flexes his hand against my bra strap.
“Good, now open your hand and rest your palm on my shoulder.”
I’m fondling his shoulder. It is everything and more. Strong, rounded with muscle, and hard as a rock. A girl could have fantasies about his shoulders. I add it to my collection.
“Here we go.” He smirks.
Dancing with Justin is like skiing in fresh powder. Effortless and smooth. Even though I’m dancing backward, he leads me around the floor, weaving us through the other couples. With a gentle press of his fingers on my shoulder blade, he guides me through a turn. Amazingly, I don’t trip.
“You look surprised,” he whispers when I’m back in his arms.
It’s an understatement for how I’m feeling right now.
I’m a minute from turning into a pile of swoony goo. Never in my life have I swooned over a man before.
But Justin isn’t a regular guy.
USA Today Bestselling Author Daisy Prescott writes romantic comedies with heart.
Her Modern Love Stories feature characters in their thirties and forties finding and rediscovering love in unexpected and humorous ways. Her Wingmen books star regular guys who often have beards, drive trucks, and love deeply once they fall. Look for her new Rom Com series, Love with Altitude, in 2017.
Born and raised in San Diego, Daisy currently lives in a real life Stars Hollow in the Boston suburbs with her husband, their rescue dog, and an indeterminate number of imaginary house goats. When not writing about herself in the third person, Daisy can be found traveling, gardening, baking, or lost in a good book.