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“Please tell me you didn’t do one of those horrible dancing with the stars things when you first retired.”
He laughs, a deep, genuine laugh. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard him laugh, and it’s a low, rich rumble that I feel all the way down to my cunt.
Oh, my. His laughter transforms him. It softens the hard edges of his face and takes him from interesting looking to devastatingly handsome.
Like the greedy addict I am, I can’t get enough of it. I want to make him laugh more. All day. Every day.
Because I feel like he probably hasn’t laughed enough in his life and because I love that I’m the one who caused this miracle. Since I can’t think of anything to keep him laughing, I go for keeping him dancing instead.
“Hey, Siri,” I say. “Play something we can two-step to.”
A moment later, a soft country music ballad starts, and he slows his steps to match, pulling me just a bit closer.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Spill the beans. How’d you learn to dance like this?”
“Not Dancing with the Stars,” he says.
“Thank God.”
“My mom ...” He clears his throat, looking suddenly self-conscious. “She used to worry about me. Worried I didn’t know how to interact with people. She enrolled me in one of those cotillion things when I was in high school.”
“It paid off.”
“It was horrible. Pure torture.”
“Well, you're an excellent dancer now.”
“It was the worst. If you think I’m awkward now, you should have seen me then. It was ten times worse.”
My steps slow automatically as I gaze into his eyes. “I don’t think you’re awkward now.”
I think you’re perfect, I want to say.
Instead, I clear my throat and pick up my pace so we’re back in rhythm with the song. “You’ve mentioned your mother several times, but never your father. What was his deal?”
I know as soon as I ask that it’s a sensitive subject. I can feel it in the way his shoulders tense under my hand. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that. That was rude of me.”
He clears his throat. “No. It’s okay. Nothing you couldn’t read online if you wanted. My father left us when I was just a kid. Five or six, I think.”
“You think?” I ask. In for a nosy penny, in for a nosy pound. “You don’t remember?”
“I don’t have a lot of memories of him. Even before he left. I’m pretty sure Wikipedia has more information on him than I do.” He gives a laugh that sounds more detached than bitter. “I read once that every great man has daddy issues.” He snorts. “Not that I think I'm great. But I was young when I read that. It was motivation.”
“And you haven't ever tried to find him?”
“Unnecessary. When you make as much money as I have, the unwanted relatives find you.”
I want to hug him. Comfort him. Instead, I reach my hand up to brush at a lock of his hair. “I’m sorry.”
And I don’t know if I’m apologizing for asking or offering consolation for what a douchebag his father is.
He stares off into the middle distance for a moment before bringing his gaze back to mine. “What about you? You’ve mentioned both your parents. Did your mom teach you to dance and cook?”
“Oh, no, the cooking was all Dad.”
Confusion flickers over his face, and I realize we’ve never talked about my dad.
“My dad was Richard Lewis.”
