Page 77 of Mistletoe, Mayhem & Mr. Grump
"Who told you it was small?" Malcolm demands.
"The photos where you use the same angle to hide the actual size," I explain. "Very clever composition. Photography 101."
"Size doesn't matter," Anastasia interjects. "It's about the journey."
"Classic small boat defense," Mrs. Patterson observes.
"It's not small!" Malcolm protests. "It's... efficiently designed."
"Now you're just making it worse," Teddy adds helpfully from behind his drums.
Malcolm's face is turning an interesting shade of red that clashes with his bow tie.
The band launches into what's definitely not "Jingle Bells" but has similar energy. Couples start moving to the dance floor with varying degrees of success.
"Wren," Malcolm says, offering his hand. "Shall we dance?"
"Actually—" she starts.
"She promised me the first dance," I interrupt.
"I did?" she asks, then catches my eye. "I did. Earlier. When we were... discussing dancing."
"You were discussing dancing?" Malcolm asks suspiciously.
"Extensively," I confirm. "We discuss all kinds of things. Dancing, ceiling stains, anxiety alphabetization."
"Anxiety alphabetization?" Anastasia asks. "Is that a Vermont thing?"
"It's a Wren thing," I say, offering her my hand. "Shall we?"
She takes it, and I can feel her trembling slightly. Or maybe that's the floor vibrating from Teddy's enthusiastic drumming.
"I don't actually remember promising you a dance," she whispers as I lead her onto the floor.
"You didn't," I admit. "But I couldn't let you suffer through dancing with him." I say, pulling her into position.
She laughs, and suddenly we're dancing. Not the awkward, committee-scored dancing from practice, but actual dancing. The kind where you forget other people exist.
"You're good at this," she breathes.
"You're easy to dance with," I reply. "When you're not trying to alphabetize your steps."
"I wasn't alphabetizing," she protests. "I was chronologically ordering."
"Even worse," I inform her.
"More efficient," she argues.
"Dancing isn't supposed to be efficient," I say, spinning her.
"Tell that to Malcolm," she says, nodding toward where he's attempting to dance with Anastasia while apparently explaining optimal arm positions.
"Is he giving her instructions?" I ask.
"He always gives instructions," she confirms. "Last year he made dance cards with suggested tempo notations."
"He needs therapy," I observe.
