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I grin. “She’s a smart woman. She gets it from me.”
“That’s not how things work, Ryder.”
“Of course she knows we wouldn’t be dating.” Because she is a smart woman. My mother knows a woman like Elliot would turn me down flat. I only know this because Elliot’s the only woman like Elliot I know, and something tells me that’s exactly what would happen. If I was interested, of course. “And—”
“You don’t need to rub it in.” Elliot starts to stalk away, but I grab her arm and pull her back to me.
She looks up at me.
I want to say a whole lot of shit to her, but it all is so absurd I don’t. Elliot always misconstrues me, anyway. She thinks she’s got me pigeonholed. She’s probably got some kind of thesis, too.
“Rub what in? And why are you so huffy?”
Her eyes narrow. “I’m not huffy.”
“Yeah, you are. You have little sparks about you. Not actual ones, but I can feel them.”
“Look—”
“No, you listen.” If I let her speak, if I let her go, she’ll stomp out and our time’s limited. I don’t know what my mother said to get Elliot so riled, but it doesn’t matter. I need to smooth things, and I do that well. Usually. With people who aren’t named Elliot Perry. “My mother might have worked it out, but no one else would.”
“No one would believe it.”
“People believe all sorts of things.”
“No, that you’d want someone as unflashy as me.”
“I don’t just go for flashy, Perry. I’m not crass.”
Her face says otherwise, so I ignore it.
“I’m a man of many talents,” I add. “Of many tastes and types. People believe whatever you give them if it’s sold well enough.”
She shakes her head and suddenly I don’t want this conversation to happen here. I want the night off. I want to capture a little of that laid back fun from the night before.
“Maybe you’re right,” she says.
“Of course I am. Let’s get out of here, Perry.”
For a moment I think she’s going to say no, but wheels turn in that head of hers. I can almost hear them. Then she smiles, and it’s the sort of smile that could undo a man. “Okay. Dancing.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. Let’s sell this. Let’s go dancing.”
I’m staring at her. Of all the things I figured she’d come up with…dancing—of any kind—is the last.
“What?” There’s an innocent air I don’t trust.
I point a finger at her. “Like a club? Or salsa? Are you a secret waltzer?”
“You’re an idiot, no. Just out, music, dancing, you know.”
“Enlighten me.”
“You’re changing, Ryder. Let’s show change.”
“By boogying?”
