Page 45 of Love Me Tomorrow

Dark eyes flit down to my lips. “I’m nearly twice your size.”

“So you’ll look like a giraffe being led by a mouse for the rest of the song. What’d you say earlier about my jumping jacks, that everyone is too plastered to even think about applauding?” When I catch his eye, I add, “Humor me, Harvey.”Trust me. “I won’t let you wipe out. Better yet, if I do, at least you know we’ll go down together.”

Almost reluctantly, he does.

The tension still strains his shoulders but, second by second, I feel the rest of him cede control. My left hand stays looped around the back of his neck while my right slips down his side to the waistband of his black pants. With gentle encouragement, I slow our pace until we’re matching the rhythm of the song. It’s a sexy blues number now, a little too fast for a traditional slow dance but way too slow for the Cajun zydeco jig that Owen was determined to set us upon.

“I was a debutante,” I murmur after a moment, once Owen has matched me for two eight counts in a row and I’m ninety-percent sure that we won’t pull a domino effect and send the rest of the crowd tipping over. “I’m not sure if I ever told you that.”

The pressure of his hand at my back slips up my spine. Lingers there, between my bare shoulder blades, before lazily coasting down all over again. Goose bumps flare to life on my skin, just as Owen murmurs, “Nah, you never did. But I can see it.”

Because I’m boring? A little too perfect? Filled with no substance?

I bite back the words. I’m not going to go there, not with him. It’s one thing to read comments from strangers online and another thing entirely to hear someone I respect—someone who means so much to me—agree with the tabloids. Not that I think Owen would agree, necessarily, but best to avoid that conversation altogether.

Just in case.

My thighs brush his as we turn. “I was given private dance lessons when I hit the ninth grade—nothing ever fun, though. No jazz, no hip-hop. It was like taking a page out ofPride & Prejudiceand realizing no one else ever received the script.” I let out a little laugh. “You should have seen me at my first high school dance with our brother school. Everyone was bumping and grinding along to Next’sToo Closeand there I stood, off in the corner, wondering how I could possibly be so clueless.”

“No one asked you to dance?” Owen’s voice is pure grit, pure sex. My fingers dig into his side a little deeper. “I find that hard to believe.”

“I’m pretty sure I looked horrified. Only one of the chaperones approached me—my English teacher. She wanted me to know that she really enjoyed the meal she’d had at Rose & Thorn.” I scrunch my nose, tipping my head back. “Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure she asked me for a friends-and-family discount for the next time she went back.”

Owen shakes his head, sending the dark strands of his hair flopping forward boyishly. It nearly destroys that wholeI-eat-children-for-breakfastbad boy appeal that he rocks on the regular. Nearly. Like the ink on his skin, Owen’s brash outlook on life isn’t the sort to ever be tamed. “Your teacher doesn’t count.”

“Then, no, no one asked me to dance.”

Back then, I’d felt embarrassed and confused. Going to an all girls’ school meant that my interactions with guys my age had been severely limited. Flirting, talking with the opposite sex—all of those skills had skipped right over me in the genetic pool. Embarrassment aside, I hadn’t minded much. While everyone sweated through their clothing and worked out their quads while they touched their toes, I ate my heart out at the buffet table. Who the hell needs pimply-faced boys when there are cupcakes? Priorities.

“It was probably for everyone’s benefit,” I tell Owen, letting the memories of high school fade with a boot to the mental file. “I’m pretty sure no one cared to see my pirouettes.”

The right corner of Owen’s mouth curls. “Oh yeah? They as good as your jumping jacks?”

“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” I pretend to hike my nose up in the air like the pampered heiress I’ve been accused of being my whole life. “It’s not my fault that I missed Broadway’s call.”

“Is that what happened?” Owen asks, sounding all too amused. “Just one phone call and your dancing career was over before it even began?”

In an exaggerated, New Orleans drawl, I murmur, “That’s right, sir. Sometimes, I still shed a tear or two over a lost opportunity. Breaks my heart, you know?”

“Must be the case, especially since Broadway is the home of actors and not necessarily dancers.”

I blink. “Well, then.”

“If it makes you feel any better, high school dances spark fear into even the bravest souls.”

“So you’re telling me you were clueless too?”

This time, his mouth tugs up into a full-fledge grin. “Rose, you think anyone was really tryin’ to dance with me when I have all the rhythm of an elephant on ice?”

Laughter bursts out of me, unapologetically loud. “Nowthere’sa visual I won’t forget.”

“Not just a visual, apparently.”

“My feet have never felt better.”

Owen’s gaze flicks between mine, studiously assessing. “Your right eye is twitching.”

Dammit!“Not you too,” I groan, momentarily dropping my head back and forgetting all about the fact that I’m supposed to be the one leading the cause. But what Owen is missing in rhythm, he triumphs in persistence. He doesn’t let us miss a beat, even when I say, “You’re the second person to tell me that tonight.”

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