Page 22 of The Match Faker

I’m going to wipe his touch off the surface of her skin.

“Jasmine.” I hold out my hand to her. The music slows, stops. None of us move, Mitch and I dangled on the edge of her line. “Dance with me?”

6

JASMINE

When we first matched, I thought maybe the algorithm was a dud. Or maybe I was unmatchable. While cute and funny, Nick was nothing like I’d expected, and he was not the kind of guy I’d ever consider for myself. Forget the fact that I’d never have a compatible schedule with a bartender. The man had me meet him for our first dateathis bar,whilehe was working. He’s too unserious, too fun. Good for a good time, not a long time. I’m still not convinced about the algorithm, but out of all the people in this huge room, most of who know me better than he does—which isn’t difficult since he barely knows me at all—he’s the only person who bothered to save me. I don’t have anything against being saved, I’m just not sure it’s ever happened to me before.

Usually, I have to be my own hero.

I put my hand, still warm from Mitchell’s skin, into Nick’s palm.

Then, it’s like Mitchell doesn’t exist, never existed. Nick pulls me into him. His hand spans my shoulder blades, crushing the bow holding my jumpsuit up. He interlocks our fingers and sways as the band plays a new song with a more upbeat tempo.Nick’s movements don’t quicken, though. We move in a slow circle, out of time with the music. He fits his cheek against my temple, like it was meant to be there. Every breath brushes my ear, sending the piece of hair I can never keep tucked behind my ear floating. His breathing alone sends shivers down my spine.

“Nick,” I whisper, hit with the urge to explain myself. How I said no when Mitchell asked me to dance. How he then raised his voice into a petulant, drunken whine. How I didn’t want to be a part of whatever scene he was ready to make so I danced with him, hoping at once that no one would see us, and that anyone would. “It wasn’t…”

He squeezes my hand and shakes his head. I’m choosing to read that aswhatever you’re about to say, don’t.

“What are you doing?” I ask instead.

“Dancing with you.” His deep tone vibrates through me, drowning out the lead singer’s crooning.

We’re a music-box couple.

“Not really,” I say. “We’re barely moving.”

He sighs, like I’ve just made the most egregious error of my life, then he spins me. Once, twice. The room becomes a blur, of the fractals from the mirror ball, of the dark shadows cast by the band, their instruments, the other guests. He reels me back in, my back pressed to his chest, his arms crossed in front of me, still holding my hands against my hips, setting his chin on my bare shoulder.

We dance. Nickdances.

His hips, his shoulders, sway mine. He hums along with the singer. A fire ignites in my chest, burning low and sweet.

“You can’t dance,” I say, breathless. My colleagues’ stares are heavy on my bare skin. Who wouldn’t stare at two people moving like this, plastered together from shoulder to knee, moving in a way that makes them look far more intimately acquainted than Nick and I are. I keep my eyes on the placewhere our fingers intertwine against the soft velvet of my jumpsuit.

He spins me again, back around to face him, and notches me back into the place against his cheek. We slow, dancing against the music. My limbs don’t fight so hard to keep the beat anymore. My muscles follow his lead, the music in his head.

“Icandance,” he says, his voice low. “I justdon’t.”

I lower my chin, surveying the space between us. The shine of his shoes catches a glint of light as he leads me through another gentle turn. Pressed this close to the open collar of his button-down, I’m enveloped in the scent of the cologne I asked him to use. Suddenly, I regret not doing it earlier when he demanded I smell him.

“I hate to tell you this.” I press my nose to his throat.

Nick doesn’t flinch but he does make a sound, so low I can’t hear it but can feel it rumble through his throat.

“You’re dancing.”

The drummer hits his cymbalsagain again againon the outro. Nick’s hand is a kite line, the only thing keeping me from floating into the bunting draped above us.

“Like I said, Icandance. I just don’t.” He pulls back and studies me. His brown eyes hold none of the sarcasm or snark that feels natural to him.

“So, why are you dancing with me?”

He slips one hand up my bare arm, leaving heat in its wake like the burn of bourbon. Cupping the side of my neck, he brushes his thumb along my jawline. He presses at the corner of my lips. He’ll smudge my lipstick.

I lean into his hand.

He shrugs. “Just seemed right.”

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