“I on—ly have eyes…” He held out a hand. “Do you dance?”
She shook her head. “Nope. I’m embarrassed for you.”
He smirked and prowled closer, moving like one of the Pips. “Sha-bop-sha-bop… You’re here and so am I…”
“What are you doing?”
“Come on.”
“No.” She turned back to the wall, and he stole her paintbrush, tossing it right onto the cement floor. She tsked. “You got paint on the floor.”
“Sha-bop-sha-bop…” He pulled her to her feet, and she pressed her lips tight, not indulging him in any way.
“Ryan.” She stood but kept her arms stiff at her side.
He clicked his fingers to the beat, not touching her but also not caring that he was dancing by himself. “How long has it been since someone danced with you?”
Too long. “I don’t dance.”
“Try.” He took her hand, lifting it to his shoulder, and dropped his grip to her hip, curling his fingers around her side. She tried not to flinch at the contact, but her body noticeably stiffened.
“Relax. I’ll lead.” He lifted her other hand and slowly turned them in a circle as the song played, each sha-bop-sha-bop bouncing off the bare cement walls and floor.
Her feet awkwardly followed along as her neck craned to look into his eyes. “Dancing, huh?” It was sort of nice.
“What can I say? Painting was getting boring.”
She smiled, finding her rhythm and loosening her shoulders. Not thinking too hard about it, she rested her head against his shirt. As the song continued he quietly sang, the words rumbling from his chest to her ear.
Her eyes closed and for a second the world disappeared. She didn’t think about the past or what would come tomorrow. She existed only in the present, alone with him. No guilt. No fear. Just safe.
The song ended and she blinked her eyes open, wishing it had lasted a few minutes longer. She awkwardly peeled her hand out of his grip, noting the way teal specks spattered his knuckles. Hers wore thicker smears.
“Thanks for the dance,” she said, moving back to her wall and looking for her paintbrush. “That was nice.”
Another doo-wop song came on. “We can keep going.”
The Still of the Night. She knew it, and it triggered no painful memories. Maybe the genre was the key. She could still have music in her life, she just had to find music that didn’t hold a memory. She spotted her paintbrush just as Ryan held open his hands, inviting her for another dance.
“O—okay.” Don’t overthink it.
She returned her hands to his and let him lead for the next three songs. What was it about music? It could relax a person so completely, excite them, or take them back in time. The right song could fill a person with hope or energy or even sorrow. God, she’d missed music.
For years, she assumed she’d never have music in her life again. What a relief to discover she could still handle certain songs, as long as they weren’t linked to any memories of Nash.
After several slow tunes, the beat shifted to something faster, and he surprised her, twirling her. She giggled in a way she hadn’t giggled in years, a full belly laugh, the way only a little girl could laugh when enchanted by everyday magic.
He made a charming dance partner. And he knew the words to almost every song.
Impressed by his skill, she asked, “Who taught you to dance?”
“My mother. Ready?”
“Ready for what?”
“Hold on.” The chorus repeated, and this time, instead of twirling her, he dipped her.
All the blood rushed to her head. Worried he might drop her at this angle, her grip on his shoulders tightened. Her gaze latched with his and her amusement faded. The music seemed to drift away.
“You have the best laugh,” he rasped, his arm cradling her back as he held her suspended, her hair trailing on the ground. His gaze held hers in an intense stare that made her feel trapped in something intimate she wasn’t ready for.
“Ryan…” Her grip tightened, her fear of falling escalating sharply. Her belly flipped and she licked her lips, unsure how or why the energy had shifted.
“Did you get jealous this morning when you thought Mariella was more than my cousin?”
She hadn’t expected the question, but recalling her silly behavior made her uncomfortable. She squirmed in his hold. “Let me up.”
He hesitated, then pulled her back to an upright position. She let go of his hands, her heart beating too fast. The paint fumes were getting to her.
“I…” There weren’t enough windows down here. “I need some air.”
She raced up the stairs, hearing him call her name but too chicken to stop. Bolting out the back door, she trudged down the back steps and flung herself at the picket fence.
He was standing at the door when she turned. She couldn’t get back to her yard without hopping the fence or coming face to face with him, which wasn’t an option.