Page 67 of Lavender and Honey

"Don't tell me you've never been?" Soren asks, his voice rising in mock horror as he clutches his chest dramatically. "An absolute travesty. One I intend to remedy immediately."

I can't help the nervous laugh that escapes me. "I've never really danced much at all. Well, except..." I trail off, memories surfacing of stiff formal lessons in my parents' living room, a stern-faced instructor counting beats as I learned the proper way for an Omega to follow an Alpha's lead in a waltz.

"Except?" Soren prompts, his head tilting to the side with genuine curiosity. His eyes never leave my face, as if my answer might contain the secrets of the universe.

"Ballroom dancing," I admit, wrinkling my nose slightly. "My parents insisted. It was considered... proper."

Understanding flashes across Soren's face, followed quickly by that mischievous grin I'm growing so fond of. "Oh, this is going to be even better than I thought," he says, threading his fingers through mine and tugging me toward the entrance. "Ballroom dancing is all about rules and form. Line dancing is about letting loose and having fun."

My stomach knots, both at the prospect of "letting loose"—not exactly my forte—and at the casual way he holds my hand, his fingers warm against mine. "I'm not sure I know how to do either of those things," I confess, my voice smaller than I intend.

Soren stops, turning to face me fully. In the glow of the string lights adorning the venue's entrance, his features soften. "Hey," he says, squeezing my hand gently. "No pressure, okay? If you hate it, we'll leave and find something else to do. But I think you might surprise yourself if you give it a chance."

The sincerity in his voice loosens something tight inside my chest. I nod, offering a small smile in return. "Okay. I'll try."

"That's my girl," he says, the casual endearment sending an unexpected warmth through me. "Now come on. The night awaits."

The interior of The Stampede is a sensory overload after the relative quiet outside. The music, some upbeat country song about trucks and heartbreak, swells around us. The air smells of wood polish, beer, and the faint musk of bodies in motion. Lights strung along the rafters cast a warm golden glow over everything, making even the worn wooden floors seem to shimmer. All around us, people move in coordinated lines, stepping, turning, and clapping in unison. Some wear cowboy hats and boots, others are dressed in everyday clothes. Their faces are flushed with exertion and joy, and something in their collective energy calls to me despite my nervousness.

Soren leads me past the dance floor to a less crowded area near the bar. "Let's get you a drink first," he suggests, nodding to the bartender. "Liquid courage."

"I don't think alcohol and my coordination skills are a good mix," I say, eyeing the dance floor with growing apprehension.

Soren laughs, the sound rich and warm in the buzzing atmosphere. "I was thinking more along the lines of a soda. I need you clear-headed for those fancy feet of yours."

The way he says it—as if he's genuinely excited to dance with me, as if my participation is something to look forward to rather than tolerate—makes my cheeks warm. The bartender slides two glasses of soda toward us, and Soren passes one to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange, and I'm acutely aware of how alive my skin feels, how every nerve ending seems to be firing in his presence.

"So," I say, taking a sip to hide my flustered state, "how did you get into line dancing?"

Soren leans against the bar, his posture casual but his gaze intent on me. "Would you believe it was Finn who got me started?"

My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Finn? Seriously?" I try to picture the steady, grounded woodcarver stomping and whooping on a dance floor and fail completely.

"Oh yeah," Soren grins, clearly enjoying my reaction. "He might seem all quiet and zen, but get a few beers in him and some George Strait playing, and the man transforms." He takes a drink, his eyes never leaving mine. "Plus, it's a great way to let off steam, you know? No thinking, no worrying, just moving your body to the music."

I nod, though I'm not sure I do know. My relationship with my body has always been complicated—something to be contained, controlled, hidden beneath loose clothes and careful movements. The idea of surrendering to music, of letting mybody lead instead of my overactive mind, is both terrifying and strangely appealing.

"How about you?" Soren asks, setting down his glass. "You said ballroom dancing. Were you any good?"

I shrug, tracing a finger through the condensation on my glass. "I was adequate. It's mostly about memorizing steps and counting beats. Not exactly a creative exercise."

"And you strike me as someone who likes creative exercises," Soren says, his voice dropping lower. "Let me guess—your parents insisted because it was a 'proper' skill for a young Omega to have."

The accuracy of his guess startles a laugh out of me. "How did you know?"

His expression darkens slightly. "Let's just say I've seen enough of that traditional pack bullshit to recognize it." Then, just as quickly, the shadow passes, and he's smiling again. "But tonight isn't about the past. It's about making new memories. Better ones."

Before I can respond, the music shifts, and Soren perks up like a hound catching a scent. "Oh! This is perfect for beginners. Come on." He downs the rest of his drink in one gulp and holds out his hand to me.

I hesitate, glancing at the dance floor where people are lining up in rows. "I don't know the steps," I protest weakly.

"That's the beauty of line dancing," Soren says, waggling his fingers at me in encouragement. "Everyone's facing the same direction, and the steps repeat. Just follow me and the people in front of you. Plus, this one's super easy."

Something in his enthusiasm is infectious. I set down my half-finished drink and place my hand in his, allowing him to lead me toward the dance floor. My heart pounds so hard I'm sure he must feel it through our connected palms.

"Here, this spot's perfect," Soren says, positioning me beside him in a row of dancers. "Just watch my feet at first if you want. The steps are right, left, right-touch, left, right, left-touch, then turn and repeat."

"That doesn't sound easy at all," I mutter, panic rising as the current song ends and the DJ announces the next one.

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