to drink from something I’d left unattended, even if it was hard to imagine danger from this friendly crowd.
“Take mine.” Danesh held out his bottle.
I’d just seen him drink from it, and I was still thirsty, so I took a sip.
“Are you having fun?”
“Yes.” I rotated my shoulder. “Except for that one guy who seemed to think we were bowling rather than dancing, and I was the bowling ball. But otherwise, yes. I haven’t danced in a while. It feels good to get back to it.”
On the dance floor, the crowd was stomping and kicking in a huge circle. A few couples—to my surprise, Jerry and Maureen among them—stayed in the center of the circle, gracing the basic dance step with the addition of twirls and place changes.
“No Cotton-Eyed Joe for you?” Danesh asked.
“I know how, believe it or not. But it’s been a long day, and I just don’t have the energy.”
I handed back the beer and he took another drink. “Understandable. Think you’ll have the energy to dance the next one with me?”
I smiled. “Sure, though I ought to wait until I hear the song before I commit. If it’s fast, go easy on me.”
“No worry there. They always follow Cotton-Eyed Joe with something slow.”
“Thank goodness.” Then it hit me. A slow dance with Danesh. Had the room suddenly gotten even hotter?
Chapter 13
Cotton-Eyed Joe ended and the dance floor emptied, most people heading to the bar and clamoring for drinks or else stepping outside where the night air might be a little cooler. A leisurely song I didn’t recognize started playing. Danesh rose and held out his hand. I felt my heart thudding as my hand seemed to rise of its own accord and slip into his. I felt like I was floating somewhere outside myself, looking down on us as he led me to the dance floor.
Then his arm slid around me and pulled me back to earth. I could feel the heat of his hand pressed against my low back, the calluses of the hand holding mine. He was a smooth lead, no fancy moves, but perfect rhythm and just the right amount of pressure to guide me clearly without any suggestion of force. I remembered my swing dance teacher saying, “You don’t tell your partner where to go. You ask so nicely that she wants to go where you lead.” This was a perfect example.
We had the dance floor almost to ourselves, and Danesh made use of the space, leading me in lazy circles. Our eyes met and he smiled. Not his cautious half smile or the jaw-dropping full-on grin, but just a friendly, casual smile that said, “Isn’t this fun?” I dropped my gaze but smiled back.
He was half a foot taller than I was, but not so big that I felt overwhelmed. I was about eye level with the curve where his neck met his shoulder. I started to realize how dangerous that was when I had the urge to lean in and take a bite.
I dragged my gaze away, but looking down at his chest in the snug black shirt wasn’t much better. I looked over his shoulder but started to feel rude that I was avoiding eye contact. I’d been rude enough earlier. No doubt he was watching me in that intense way he had, maybe even guessing the effect he was having on me, something I preferred to keep a secret.
I forced my lips into a little smile and gave a friendly glance at his face. He was looking away, nodding to another couple as they danced past. Talk about a blow to my ego.
Why did I assume everything was about me? Had I always been this vain? Or was it another aftereffect of the attack, the self-absorption of the victim who can only see things through the lens of how they affect her? I knew I was getting better after six months of counseling, but sometimes I wondered how much farther I had to go.
My eyes suddenly focused and I realized I’d been frowning over my thoughts and staring at Danesh’s face without really seeing him. And of course now he was looking at me, his expression puzzled and a little worried. He raised his eyebrows in question. “You all right?”
I
“Take mine.” Danesh held out his bottle.
I’d just seen him drink from it, and I was still thirsty, so I took a sip.
“Are you having fun?”
“Yes.” I rotated my shoulder. “Except for that one guy who seemed to think we were bowling rather than dancing, and I was the bowling ball. But otherwise, yes. I haven’t danced in a while. It feels good to get back to it.”
On the dance floor, the crowd was stomping and kicking in a huge circle. A few couples—to my surprise, Jerry and Maureen among them—stayed in the center of the circle, gracing the basic dance step with the addition of twirls and place changes.
“No Cotton-Eyed Joe for you?” Danesh asked.
“I know how, believe it or not. But it’s been a long day, and I just don’t have the energy.”
I handed back the beer and he took another drink. “Understandable. Think you’ll have the energy to dance the next one with me?”
I smiled. “Sure, though I ought to wait until I hear the song before I commit. If it’s fast, go easy on me.”
“No worry there. They always follow Cotton-Eyed Joe with something slow.”
“Thank goodness.” Then it hit me. A slow dance with Danesh. Had the room suddenly gotten even hotter?
Chapter 13
Cotton-Eyed Joe ended and the dance floor emptied, most people heading to the bar and clamoring for drinks or else stepping outside where the night air might be a little cooler. A leisurely song I didn’t recognize started playing. Danesh rose and held out his hand. I felt my heart thudding as my hand seemed to rise of its own accord and slip into his. I felt like I was floating somewhere outside myself, looking down on us as he led me to the dance floor.
Then his arm slid around me and pulled me back to earth. I could feel the heat of his hand pressed against my low back, the calluses of the hand holding mine. He was a smooth lead, no fancy moves, but perfect rhythm and just the right amount of pressure to guide me clearly without any suggestion of force. I remembered my swing dance teacher saying, “You don’t tell your partner where to go. You ask so nicely that she wants to go where you lead.” This was a perfect example.
We had the dance floor almost to ourselves, and Danesh made use of the space, leading me in lazy circles. Our eyes met and he smiled. Not his cautious half smile or the jaw-dropping full-on grin, but just a friendly, casual smile that said, “Isn’t this fun?” I dropped my gaze but smiled back.
He was half a foot taller than I was, but not so big that I felt overwhelmed. I was about eye level with the curve where his neck met his shoulder. I started to realize how dangerous that was when I had the urge to lean in and take a bite.
I dragged my gaze away, but looking down at his chest in the snug black shirt wasn’t much better. I looked over his shoulder but started to feel rude that I was avoiding eye contact. I’d been rude enough earlier. No doubt he was watching me in that intense way he had, maybe even guessing the effect he was having on me, something I preferred to keep a secret.
I forced my lips into a little smile and gave a friendly glance at his face. He was looking away, nodding to another couple as they danced past. Talk about a blow to my ego.
Why did I assume everything was about me? Had I always been this vain? Or was it another aftereffect of the attack, the self-absorption of the victim who can only see things through the lens of how they affect her? I knew I was getting better after six months of counseling, but sometimes I wondered how much farther I had to go.
My eyes suddenly focused and I realized I’d been frowning over my thoughts and staring at Danesh’s face without really seeing him. And of course now he was looking at me, his expression puzzled and a little worried. He raised his eyebrows in question. “You all right?”
I
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