Page 57 of The Second Dance
“My mom was probably pissed.”
She looks up at me, frowning a little. “I really can’t fathom what your dad was thinking, but joke’s on him if he was trying to hurt her. She really does care about the foundation, and this was a boost for our cause.”
“Maybe he was trying to save face.”
“Maybe he was being petty.” She fires back.
She’s angry, but at least she’s talking to me. I’m angry, too. But when we’re arguing, it almost feels like we’re together. “You don’t know what she’s put him through.”
She laughs. “He’s not a victim in this, Bo.”
I step closer. “I never said he was.”
Andy watches me warily as I come closer. Her voice loses some of its venom. “She’s the one who was hurt.”
Pretty sure we’re not talking about my parents anymore. “I know, Andy. And I bet he’d take it all back if he could.”
32.
Andy
I’m already leaning up against a wall. There’s nowhere to go as he approaches me.
Technically, I could slip to the side.
But I don’t.
He looks larger than life. I’m used to seeing him in flannel work shirts and ripped up jeans. The black button up he wears is tailored, skimming his wide shoulders, his narrow waist. And those jeans, much tighter and slimmer than usual, aren’t leaving much to the imagination.
I watch transfixed as he moves in, stopping close enough for me to feel the heat rolling off his body. If I took a deep breath, my tummy might brush against his belt buckle.
“You look so pretty tonight.” He murmurs. That low voice thrums right down my spine.
“Bo…”
He stares down at me, waiting.
I didn’t really have a follow up. I don’t know if it was an admonishment or a plea.
My thoughts might be a tangled mess, but my heart knows what it wants.
I want to sweep him up and take him somewhere new. To a place where nobody knows our name. Where we don’t have a past. Somewhere we can build a future.
This place, and the history around it, is toxic. I’m not sure there’s any getting past it.
I watch, transfixed, as he reaches out and lifts my sweater back up on my shoulder. Maybe that was all he intended to do, but his fingers brush the ribbon at my shoulder.
I could stop him as he takes the end in his fingers. It would be as simple as pushing his hand away. He wouldn’t force it.
But I just stand there, nerves firing, while he slowly tugs the ribbon undone.
He lets out a deep breath, like untying that ribbon was something he needed to do.
His fingers skate over the bare slope on my shoulder, sliding up my neck to tip my chin.
“Tell me to stop.” He whispers, his voice raspy.
He’s snared me in his dark gaze. I give my head the barest shake.
