Page 77 of The Paradise Problem

“You sure?” He huffs out a surprised breath. “You sound a little conflicted.”

“No offense, Uncle Liam, but I wouldn’t even know how to dance to this old-timey shit.”

I pull back, looking at her in feigned surprise. “She swears!”

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“I could teach you,” I tell her.

West’s honeyed voice slides between us. “Or we could teach her.”

He holds out a hand to Reagan and I can’t blame her for the way she seems to enter a trance and take it, following him inside. I can’t resist following, either, and I was actively trying.

Just as West sets his wineglass down on an empty table, the band breaks into a song I remember from high school band—Benny Goodman’s laid-back “In the Mood”—and West leads Reagan to the floor, where she absolutely refuses to move her feet. Laughing, he steps back and shows her the basic choreography of a dance I’ve definitely seen on Dancing with the Stars.

The pair practice together a few times, and when Reagan starts to get the hang of it, West picks up the tempo, slowly drawing her into his arms and setting off around the floor, much to the delight of the growing audience. With a wicked grin, he deftly leads her in a simple dance around the room while I watch from the sidelines, stunned. Reagan’s expression goes from reluctant and mortified to amused as he turns them to face the same way, kicking up their heels, then pulls her back to him, lifting her up to twirl her in a smooth circle. Her smile grows the more he sweeps her around the dance floor, and she breaks into delighted hysterics when he flips her over his arm. The captive audience watches as they come to a laughing, gasping stop at the end when West dips her and she throws her head back, laughing.

With a sweet kiss to the top of her head, he mouths, “Thank you, sweetheart,” and she runs over to Lincoln in the periphery, covering her face but beaming beneath her hands.

A hefty number of ladies observe West appreciatively as he makes his way over to me, the viper. His gaze is tentative, and he accepts a glass of water from a waitress with a small mumbled “Thanks.”

“Well, Satan, that was fucking adorable.”

West laughs. “She swears.”

“She sure as shit does.” I lift my chin to the dance floor. “Where’d you learn all that?”

“Granny had us all in dance classes when we were young. Charlie did cotillion. Alex, Jake, and I did young men’s. We basically learned how to be gentlemen. To my granny, dancing was a big part of that.”

“I suspect it makes me a bad feminist to think that’s hot.”

“I suspect you’re right.”

And of course, a slow song begins to play.

His expression straightens, eyes turn earnest. “Would you dance with me?”

I wrap my arms around my stomach. “No, thank you.”

“I know you’re mad at me. And I know why.”

“Good.”

He gazes down at me. “Want to dance anyway?”

I chew my lip, thinking it over. He doesn’t look away, doesn’t shrink from the direct way I’m studying him.

“How do I know you won’t do a one-eighty and freeze me out again?”

“I’ve been spending the past hour or so thinking about that exact question.”

“And?”

“And let’s talk while we dance.”

Finally, with a deep breath, I let him lead me to the floor, where I resist his attempt to pull me close to his chest.

“This song is called ‘Cheek to Cheek,’ ” he says, smiling cutely. “We can’t do the jitterbug to this one. You should come a little closer.”

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