Page 29 of The Love Wager

“Hey there, big guy,” she says, sidling up with a cup of pungent punch in her hand, the scent of which could knock out a dead horse.

“Please tell me that’s not Sally’s punch.”

“I don’t know who made it, but it’s delicious. After the day I had, I deserve it,” she says, her eyes glassy from the motor oil she’s currently sipping.

“Listen, Sally’s punch could remove paint from walls.” Leaning forward, I sniff the cup as she pulls it back in defense.

“Hey, let me have my fun. I’m on vacation.”

I shrug, stuffing my hands in my pockets. “Well, when I have to carry you out of here, don’t give too much fight, is all I’m sayin’.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I can handle my drink.”

I look around the room as if searching for something.

“Who are you looking for?” she asks as if I could possibly see anyone but her in a room full of people.

“A bar. I figure I better warn someone to watch out for you and your wild antics if there’s one around.”

She shoves my shoulder. “Knock it off.”

I spy Taylor looking over toward us with intrigue on her face.

“We’ve got an audience,” I tell Indie, and she remains facing me as she takes a big swallow of her paint thinner.

“I know. That’s why I need you to pretend like you love me.”

I laugh. “Over the top, don’t you think? We do need it to be realistic.”

“Look at me; how could you not fall in love with me instantly?” Her personality is fusing with the drink in her hand, turning her into a force to be reckoned with, a category five hurricane hitting land in Abaline, one target intended.

“You’ve got a point,” I tell her, tipping her chin up with my thumb and forefinger and leaning down to hover near her lips.

Her breathing changes.

Last night flits through my brain, and my body buzzes to life.

“I don’t know how I’ll resist. Do you have any pointers?”

Her pupils blow wide, and a soft exhale passes her pretty lips. “I?—”

I smirk, dropping my hand away and straightening away from her. “I have a bit of my own charm. I think I’ll be alright.”

“You—” she starts, but the instructor calls the class to order, and she startles as her voice comes over the microphone louder than intended.

We watch as Taylor and Spencer are walked through a few dances.

Indie is wistful, and I blame the empty cup in her hand she’s dancing with.

The instructor then announces the waltz will be where we all join the happy couple and runs through the dance for those whodon’t know how to do it. She tells us to break off into pairs and that she’ll work around the room to correct us if needed.

I take Indie’s cup before someone else can pair up with the spitfire. If I’m going to behave myself, it’ll be with only my hands on her.

I place her hands correctly, one in mine and one on my shoulder, before leading her. I take the first box step with my left foot before box-stepping right. Then it’s her turn to move us back and make her move, and she does it eloquently.

In delight, Ms. Daisy comes around with her hands clasped before her face. “See, class. These two are just perfect! Anyone having trouble, watch Brooks and…”

“Indie,” I insert.

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