“So I should just show up to a random bar in Athens and whip out Zorba’s dance and the girls’ll just fall at my feet.”
She grins. “I might come to visit you just to see what happens if you do.”
“Bianca.”
“C’mon, let me show you.”
“Fine.”
He does a shot of ouzo from the bottle they almost but didn’t quite finish that first night, as she pushes her coffee table back against the couch, giving them room to dance.
After taking a couple of sips of her wine, the drink sharp and fresh on her tongue, she says, “At first, it’s just literally stepping to the beat of the song.” She demonstrates, stepping forward with her left foot, then bouncing the toe of her opposite foot behind her before swinging it back and then out to hold.
Xavier’s glass is already empty when it joins hers on the coffee table. “That’s . . . more than just stepping to the beat. And aren’t I supposed to be doing something with my arms?”
“We’ll get to that.”
He groans, but follows her actions, stepping, tapping, swinging and then holding his leg out.
“Now what?” he asks, shaking on one leg and losing his balance a little bit.
“And back with that front leg, kick the opposite one out front and to the side and then bring it back, then kick with the other.”
He shakes his head, looking adorably lost. “You gotta show me again.”
She demonstrates one more time. Bianca hasn’t danced this dance since her sister’s wedding, but the muscle memory from childhood lessons brings it back to her immediately.
“Got it?” she asks finally, looking up to see his brow furrowed in concentration.
“Absolutely not, but let’s try it.”
“Okay, let’s do it with our arms wrapped, I can lead. Oh crap, hang on, let me put my shoes back on. You are way too tall.”
She winces as she slides her feet back into the sandals she’d worn to dinner.
“You okay? Those look painful.”
“It’s better to look good than to feel good, darling,” she says, mimicking an old SNL skit her mom had been obsessed with while she was growing up.
Xavier snorts, but doesn’t elaborate when she comes up beside him to wind their arms together, her hand curling around his shoulder blade while his is so much longer, his hand rests at the back of her neck, fingertips nearly to her opposite shoulder.
The music is long over, but they don’t need it as she breaks down the dance slowly.
“Step, touch, kick, hold, step back, kick, step back, kick, step back. And again, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine.”
As they go through it the second time, his hand slides down, falling to the middle of her back, somehow spanning the entire width of it, and the contact sends a wild shiver through her, her heart stuttering, making her lose her own rhythm.
How, after everything that happened at the library, is this simple touch affecting her so much?
“Is that it?”
“What?” she asks, blinking up at him, only half hearing what he said.
“The dance,” he asks, turning toward her fully, his hand guiding her closer as his tongue darts out against his bottom lip.
Letting out a reedy breath, she pulls her gaze away from his, trying to regulate the uneven fluttering in her chest.
“No,” she whispers, “there are . . . there are a few more steps.”
