Page 20 of Jack

Yeah, well, me too, pal.

They went inside, where Boo talked with one of the managers, who then ushered them to the adjoining ballroom.

Harper stopped off on the way to the coat-check room—isn’t that a blast from the past?—and left her black puffer jacket there.

Country music drifted from the ballroom with its gleaming, polished wood floor, chandeliers dripping from the timber ceiling, and round tables pushed to the sides.

A man waited for them, wearing a pair of black dress pants, a white shirt, and a vest. He clapped his hands. “My name is Julian, and I’ll be your instructor over the next few days. We’ll be learning two dances. The two-step, so everyone can keep up with the groom and his bride.” He glanced at Oaken Fox and Boo.

Oaken might be even more handsome in person with that dark-blond hair, the way he stood behind Boo, his hands on her shoulders, grinning.

“And then theDirty Dancingcrew dance.”

She stilled.Wait—what?

“Okay, everyone grab your partner. We’ll start with the two-step.”

She still couldn’t move. Especially after Jack turned to her, his face stiff, like he might be walking toward execution.

Nice.

He held out his hand.

She took it, horrified that hers seemed clammy and slick.

And then, because she couldn’t keep her mouth shut, or maybe her brain had already fled the building, she heard herself say, “Looks like we’re going to get that dance after all.”

Oh no, no?—

He flinched. And she froze. And then, before she could flee, he took her hand and said, “At least you’re not in high school.”

Maybe Penelope would have new fodder for her murder podcast after all.

* * *

At least you’re not in high school.

Those words. They’d just sort of fallen out of Jack’s mouth, probably because they’d been sitting in his head—or his heart—since the moment Harper walked in the front door.

Seeing her took him out. Really, he simply had nothing—no breath, no heartbeat, no thought. Because sure, his mother had let down the boom, but . . .

Harper was, well,not a high schooler by any stretch of the imagination. .

First, she’d changed her hair. A little blonde pixie cut that turned her cute, like Tinkerbell or something, and made her pale blue eyes zing right through him.

And she had curves. Not that he’d missed those a decade ago, but it seemed she’d grown into her adult body, strong and lithe but with hips and . . .

Oh boy.

And then there was that little spit of determination, almost anger, that he hadn’t seen before but maybe deserved because, well, he’d been a jerk. His over-the-top laugh had burned inside him like acid for a decade.

Now his hand brushed her back, his arm outstretched so she could rest hers in the cup of his hand, and he tried not to step on her toes as Julian directed them to move in a circle around the room, two-stepping.

So far, so good. He didn’t want to think about the next dance. Because suddenly all he was thinking was . . .

That kiss. And other things he’d shut away. And probably shouldn’t think about ever again. Like what-ifs and tomorrows.

“You’re a good lead,” she said, looking at his shoulder.

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