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He backs me up a step until my hips bump into the counter behind me. I want to let him keep going, but the biscuits are nearly done. So I pull back just enough to meet his gaze and grin. “Good morning.”
He gives me a smoldering look and then drops his head to my neck and nuzzles the spot behind my ear. “Good morning. You were up early.”
“What can I say? I slept well last night.”
Before I can say anything more, the timer on the oven goes off. I pull away and dance over the oven to check on the biscuits. When I pull them out, all golden brown deliciousness, he says, “You were up really early.”
“I hope you like biscuits.”
“Is there anyone who doesn’t?”
“Stupid people.”
He reaches for a biscuit, and I swat his hand away. “You need to let them cool at least five minutes. Trust me, you don’t want to burn the roof of your mouth.”
He retrieves his coffee and takes a sip, then asks, “Who taught you how to dance?” A quirked eyebrow, and he nods toward the speaker where the bossa nova is playing.
My cheeks flush a little as I imagine him watching me as I danced around the kitchen doing the dishes. But out loud, I ask, “Who taught you how to not dance?”
He frowns, trying to parse my sentence. The confusion that flickers over his expression makes me chuckle. “It’s just something my mom used to say. She and my dad always danced in the kitchen while they were making dinner. It was her favorite thing in the world.” Sadness washes over me for a second, but I push it aside. “That was something she used to say. Nobody learns to dance. We’re born knowing how to do it. We’re taught how to not dance.”
On impulse, I cross to where he’s standing and stop several inches away, holding my left hand to hover at his shoulder, my other out beside my waist as if I'm poised to dance with him.
He arches his brow in silent question.
“Come on,” I urge. “Let me show you.”
Since we’re right next to the biscuits, I snag a corner to taste-test while I wait for him.
“Hey!” He sounds indignant. “Why do you get to try the biscuits and I don’t?”
“Trained professional.” I point to myself. “Now, come on. Trust me.”
I gesture him closer. This time, he steps forward with a droll look.
One hand settles on my hip as he takes my other in his. He keeps a respectful several inches between us, damn him. Yes, I was kind of hoping he’d close the distance between us, taking the opportunity to grind against me. But he doesn’t. We could be on the set of Bridgerton.
“Okay,” I coax. “Just listen to the rhythm and let your feet tell you what to do. I’ll follow.”
Before I can finish my thought, he starts dancing.
“Oh!”
He can dance!
It’s not the sensual samba of a bossa nova, but classic Texas two step, the pace picked up to match the rhythm of the song.
He’s a little rusty, but he moves with the confidence of a seasoned dancer. It's perfect.
He's perfect.
“You can dance.” It comes out sounding like an accusation.
“Trained professional.” He volleys my words back at me with a smirk.
I guffaw. “You are not a trained professional!”
“You don’t know.”
