Page 33 of The Lucky One

And if I’m being truly honest with myself, I’m pretty sure I’m feeling the same.

The caller for the Ceili dance announces that they’re switching to an open dance floor for the rest of the night and the band starts a cover of ‘Zombie’ by The Cranberries and I hum appreciatively.

“Cranberries fan?” Weston asks from beside me.

I giggle as I take a sip of my Neverland Nectar ale. “Why are you so surprised?”

“The house has shared many songs, but I haven’t heard that one.”

“I wonder how it selects them.” I run my fingers across etchings in the wood table top. It’s mostly initials and I wonder who these people were.

“I’ve got a whole list of questions,” he chuckles.

“I’ve got one for you,” I announce. “How did you get so good at dancing?”

“I’m not allowed to have rhythm? Or coordination? The second is pretty important as a tight end, Spitfire.”

Even if I squint my eyes just right, I can’t see how dancing and sports have anything to do with each other. Maybe it’s because dancing is difficult for me, and I have limited-ish knowledge about football and dancing, period, but those dots don’t connect.

“I don’t see how hitting people or catching a ball has to do with either of those things.”

He leans back in his chair and chuckles. “Agility. It helps you move faster. Balance. Which is more important than you might realize. Don’t want to fall over before someone can even tackle you.” He ticks off attributes on his fingers.

Another giggle escapes as I try to imagine what he’s sharing with me.

He ignores me and continues. “Strength. Dance is much harder than it looks and allows you to build lean muscle because you’re using your own body weight. And flexibility. It’s pretty good for your joints.”

“And how did you get so knowledgeable about all of this?”

Weston pauses and takes a drink, his demeanor shifting into something a little more withdrawn. “I might’ve taken some classes.”

I’m pretty sure you could knock me over with a feather.

“You did what?”

“I took some classes. Dance classes.” He mumbles.

A reel of clips from The Game Plan cycle through my brain and I try to tamper down my excitement.

“Please tell me you took ballet classes.” I weave my fingers together beneath my chin like a prayer.

He straightens, defensively. “Emmitt Smith took ballet classes. It’s a thing.”

There’s no holding back the joy bursting from me right now. “You’re making my dreams come true right now. I always hoped The Game Plan was accurate.”

I squeeze my eyes closed and revel in the idea of Weston Reilly doing ballet. My favorite scene in the entire movie is the end when he dances with Peyton’s teacher, and now that I can substitute Weston, I might not ever recover.

“You really should stop getting your football knowledge from movies. And don’t compare me to Dwayne Johnson—it’s unhealthy.”

Probably.

I open one eye dramatically. “Do you wear tutu’s? Ever?”

Regret washes over me as a wolfish grin explodes across his face. He leans in close, and whispers, “Nope. Tanks and tights.”

Why can’t I keep my mouth shut?

“Dream killer,” I whisper.

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