“Well done,” I quip, but he ignores me.
“Did you have a poster of me on your wall, Sullivan?”
Damn it.
“I did not have your poster on my wall,” I hedge, and distract myself by taking a long sip from my soda.
It was on the back of my door: Charlie standing tall in his Dodger uniform, hair tousled after throwing off his catcher’s mask to grab a foul ball, eye black streaked attractively across his cheekbones, a bit of stubble lining his jaw. I can see it like it’s in front of me right now. It stayed up for years, ever after I left forcollege. My parents eventually converted my bedroom to a yoga studio and I’m not sure what became of the poster version of Charlie Avery, but he still lives in my mind clearly enough.
He hums in response, but his eyes are twinkling at me, like he sees right through my almost lie, but he must decide to let it go as his attention is drawn over my shoulder.
“Do you wanna dance?”
“What?”
He nods behind me and I turn in my seat to see a bunch of couples out on the dance floor at the back of the bar, a band nestled in the corner playing some country music that I wouldn’t be able to identify with a gun to my head.
“Youwant to dance?” I ask, turning back to him, but he’s out of his booth, holding a hand out to me.
“It looks like fun.”
“I thought we were here to work.”
“We did work and neither one of us has anywhere else to be until tomorrow morning. Unless you want to take up Ethan Quicke’s offer of the suite.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then come on, dance with me.”
“Do you think it’s a good idea?”
“Are you worried you won’t be able to control yourself around me, Sullivan?”
“Do you really want to talk about who does and doesn’t have self-control?”
He clicks his tongue, acknowledging the hit, but he doesn’t retract his hand.
“I don’t bite,” he assures me.
“Don’t you?”
Idistinctlyremember the nip of his teeth against my bottom lip that night back inLA. And he must too, because even in thedim lighting of the bar, there’s an actual flush rising beneath the stubble on his cheeks.
“Which one of us can’t control themselves again?” he deflects.
Fuck it.
I slide out of the booth and head straight for the dance floor without looking back. I don’t have to. I know he’s behind me. There are a few couples in well-worn cowboy boots doing some kind of two step that I wouldn’t be able to recreate even after a month of dance lessons, but when I turn, Charlie’s there and, with no hesitation, one hand finds my waist while the other takes my hand in his. And I have no choice except to follow his steps that somehow match the beat of the twanging country song and which looks an awful lot like what the other dancers are doing.
“You can dance?” I marvel, looking up at him in surprise before panicking and refocusing on my feet.
“Do you think I would have asked you if I couldn’t? Don’t bother looking at your feet, Sullivan. I got you. Look at me.”
I look up into his eyes and try to keep my gaze there, but it’s hard to not look down, to not check to make sure I don’t step on his toes.
“I have to know,” I begin, trying to relax into the steps and let him lead, but I have no idea what I’m doing, “where did you learn this?”
“Iowa isn’t exactly a place that shuns country music.”
