Page 17 of Breaking the Cowboy's Rules

“The two-step is a metaphor for life. Quick, quick, slow, slow, quick, quick, slow, slow.” He let two fingers rest on the flare of her hips, and he felt the buzz of the touch zing his heart. “And a metaphor for friendships. Quick, quick, slow, slow, quick, quick.”

She began to move with him.

Damn, but playing it cool with her was going to be one more challenge this week.

“It’s walking to a beat just like life. I take a step forward with my left; you take a step back on your right. Then on beat two, I take a step forward with my right, and you step back with your left.”

“So you get to lead and move forward while I’m steered and headed backward. Truly a metaphor for life.Sexist,” she mouthed. And he laughed.

“You’re not exaggerating,” she said. “I think this dance is symbolic of more than you care to admit.”

She dipped her finger in the whiskey and this time licked the pad of her finger clean. “Is that why the dance is in your opinion the best in the world?”

“Girl, you are going to tie me in knots,” he confessed. “Let’s do this. I’ll teach you the basics then you take the lead just to prove I can follow.”

*

Bodhi wasn’t lying.They started side by side and moved counterclockwise with the few other couples two-stepping so that she could get used to the rhythm of the dance. His hand was light on her hip to help guide her, and he counted in his baritone voice that did something funny to her chest. It felt so strange to be moving so in sync with a man she’d just met.

She could feel the hardness of his leg and hip and arm as their bodies brushed while they quick, quick, slow, slowed around the perimeter. After a couple of times around she relaxed a little. Instead of guiding her, he lightly held her hands. She let out her tensed breath. Square breathing had been something else she’d listened to and practiced while she mindlessly drove—ironic, as it had been a podcast about mindfulness.

“Ready to boss me around some?”

God, he had a beautiful smile. It lit up his whole face. Creased his cheeks and drew her in so she felt part of whatever had amused him.

“I’m ready to lead,” she told him, grateful for her deportment classes.

“Bring it on, girl.”

Girl. No one had called her girl ever. Should she be offended? Her family and colleagues would definitely be shocked and insulted.

So tonight, Nico Steel would not only shoot whiskey in a saloon and dance, but she’d be called girl. What was next, a fumbled kiss in a truck? She doubted this man had fumbled anything since puberty.

What would he kiss like?

The idea intrigued her more than it should have, but since tonight she was in improv mode, she’d see where she ended up.

Yes, and…

With a swish of her hips, she turned and faced him so that his back was to the circle. His answering smile of approval sparked a flame low in her body. He flipped his palms up, and she lightly rested her hands in an open-hand hold. She took the left step forward first, quick, quick, slow, slow, and kept her eyes on his. It felt seamless. She’d never listened to country. Never. Ever. She’d only heard colleagues and others in her Upper East Side social circle mock it, but she liked the beat and the guitars and the way it felt to move with another person and not worry about what they were thinking.

“Ready for a little swap?”

“I like leading,” she said, and then inwardly winced. That was blocking.

“You can still lead,” he said.

How many cowboys in a bar would say that to a woman?

“Show me what you had in mind.”

He held one of her hands and his other went to her shoulder blade.

“You put your hand on the seam of my shirt,” he encouraged.

She did. They kept moving. Never once did his hand dip down off her shoulder to lower or slip around toward the front of her body, and his hold on her hand was light, professional. His fingers never strayed to her wrist.

She saw a few couples execute a few spins.

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