“You, too, Mrs. Mason.”
“Please,” she says, waving a hand through the air. “Call me Siggy.”
Wade exhales, making me giggle.
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Siggy.”
She laughs. “Perfect. Now come along, Rosie. Let’s go have a chat about you running off.”
As soon as they’re out of earshot, I look at Wade.
“Seems like your mother loves me,” I joke.
“She loves everyone.”
“Really?” I make a face. “I’m not sure about that.”
He crosses his arms over his chest. “And how would you know? You’ve just met her.”
“It’s a feeling. Women’s intuition.”
Soft, jazzy notes whisper through the air. Norah Jones’s purposeful yet breathy voice breezes between us. I unknowingly hold my breath as I watch something filter through Wade’s eyes.
“Do you want to get a drink?” he asks.
It’s a deflection, a mode to fill the space between us with a method of his choosing.
“No,” I say.
“No?”
I reach out with more confidence than I actually embody and take his hand in mine. To my surprise, he lets me without a fight.
“We, Mr. Mason, are going to dance.”
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “Now?”
“Now.” I grin at him. “You do know how to dance, don’t you?”
He rolls his eyes.
I hold his gaze and ignore the warmth and steadiness of his hand in mine.
“Prove it,” I whisper and pull him toward the dance floor.
TWENTY-THREE
DARA
The commotion of the room disappears around us.
I pull Wade toward an open spot on the dance floor between couples swaying to Norah’s sexy croon. I lead him near the edge and look at him over my shoulder.
My heart lodges in my throat.
His eyes are deep—hooded even, and sparkle with something akin to trust. Wade doesn’t do things like this. He doesn’t dance with women at family weddings. I didn’t expect him to dance with me either and figured that he’d make an excuse or pull away.
But he didn’t.
He follows me without a word. There’s a slight hesitancy in the way he moves, a slight vacillation, but I can work with it. His fingers flex. His eyes are glued to mine as though if he blinks, I might disappear.
Silently, we pick a spot, and I turn to face him.
He slips his hand from mine, trailing his thumb over my palm. A spike of adrenaline fires through me, and my gaze flips to his.
A smile ghosts his lips as if to say, “You asked for this.”
Yes, I did.
I can barely breathe as he presses his hand against the small of my back. I shudder as his other hand wraps around me, boxing me in. His fingers lace together just above my behind, and he drags me closer to him.
I blow out a shaky breath, wishing for the confidence Larissa said that Wade always has, and move my arms over his shoulders. The motion is smooth and easy and without evidence of the chaos that’s taken up shop inside me.
There are too many details to categorize and file away for later.
His chest against mine is more solid and muscular than I imagined. The ridge in his shoulder feels like a tease. The skin on his neck is hot to the touch, and his hair is silkier and softer than it was in my filthy dreams last night.
“See?” I ask, needing to break the ice. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
“You make everything hard, Dara.”
He grins, turning me in a half-circle so that I’m facing the open doors to the garden.
“Is that so?” I ask, my shoulders releasing the anxiety that had built up in them.
“I don’t know what you mean.”
I give him a look. “I make everything hard? Come on, Wade. You could’ve used another word. Difficult, maybe?”
His chest rumbles with his chuckle. Each movement causes his torso to brush against mine.
“Well, you’re that too,” he says, looking down at me. “You’re just brimming with moxie.”
“My mother used to say I’m full of piss and vinegar, but moxie sounds nicer.”
He chuckles again. It’s my new favorite thing.
“What about you, Mr. Mason?”
“What about me?”
I block out the way his arm feels around me and stay focused on his face.
“Why are you so difficult?” I ask.
His forehead pulls together. “I didn’t know that I was.”
“Oh, come on.”
“I’m not difficult. I’m just …”
“Cantankerous?” I offer.
“No.”
“Crotchety?”
He chuckles for a third time. “No. Did I leave you alone with Gramps too long? You’re starting to sound like him with all of these random words you’re throwing around.”
I grin as we sway.
“I like old-fashioned words. They’re so much more fun than irritable or grouchy,” I say.
“None of those words define me.”
“No, but they describe you.”
He rolls his eyes but pulls me closer. A piece of paper couldn’t fit between us at this point. Every breath I take has my chest pressing against his, and I wonder if he can feel it as acutely as I can.
I relax in his arms. It isn’t deliberate or calculated, but I’m well aware of the tranquility at this moment. My cheek wants to press against his jacket, and my eyes want to fall closed. I want to sway with this man and listen to this music and feel the softness of the evening for as long as I can.
But I don’t.
Instead, I gaze up at him.
“What?” he asks, almost as if he doesn’t want to ask at all.
“Here I was thinking that you couldn’t dance.”
He hums. “Well, I think it’s safe to say you don’t know a lot of things about me.”
“Want to share them?”
“No.”
He narrows his eyes, making me laugh.
The song changes to a Ray LaMontagne tune about being born to love. It’s a bit livelier than the one played before it. The choice seems to agree with Wade.
He repositions his hands, splaying his palms against me with his fingers unlocked. His hands touch my body from his wrist to his fingertips, and the contact is intoxicating.
“Do you know what I think?” I prod, gauging his reaction.
He groans.
“I think,” I say, tapping the back of his neck, “that you aren’t as testy as you make out.”
“It’s dangerous to underestimate people.”
He guides me in a circle, but I refuse to be distracted. Again.
“Do you want to know what I think?” he asks.
“Sure.”
He tries not to chuckle. “I think that you spend your time trying to figure out other people because it’s easier than trying to figure out yourself.”
I gasp. “That’s rude.”
He can’t hold it back any longer. He full-on laughs.
I thought his smile was wonderful, but his laughter is glorious.
“I’ve figured myself out, thank you very much,” I say in protest. But, despite the words, a quiver of uncertainty quakes in my soul. “I admit all the good and all the bad.”
His laughter slips away. He looks at me with a soberness that makes me shiver.
“There’s bad?” he asks.
I think, I hope, the question is rhetorical because I can’t answer it. Of course, there are bad things about me. But the fact he pretends there’s not … makes me feel good.
Grinning, I toy with the back of his hair.