Page 89 of Shadow

“Just follow my lead.”

“I’m not good at following.”

He smiled. “I’ve noticed.”

They started moving. Slow. Simple. Just swaying to the music.

And Daphne, for a nondancer, could certainly dance.

She moved with him like she’d been born to do this. Following his lead but anticipating his movements. Reading his body language.

Just like they did everything else.

“You lied,” Asher said.

“About what?”

“Not dancing. You’re good at this.”

“Fine. My dad taught me. Before he died. He said every girl should know how to dance.” Her voice went soft. “We’d practice in the living room. Mom would play records. Old country songs. Frank Sinatra. Dad would spin me around until I got dizzy, and Mom would laugh and tell him to be careful.”

Her eyes were distant. Lost in memory.

“That’s a good memory,” Asher said quietly.

“Yeah. It is.” She focused on him again. “He’d be happy I remembered.”

They swayed together, the music washing over them. Other couples around them—Destiny had been rescued by Wayne.

But Asher barely noticed. Just Daphne. Just the way she fit in his arms. Just the way she moved with him without thinking.

The song shifted. Something slightly faster. Still slow enough for dancing but with more energy.

Asher spun her. Gentle. Testing.

Daphne followed perfectly. Came back to him with a small laugh. Surprised. “Okay. Showing off now.”

“Just getting started.”

He spun her again. She laughed. Genuine. Bright.

They moved across the dance floor. Nothing fancy. Nothing that would draw too much attention. Just simple spins and turns that felt natural.

The song ended. Transitioned into something upbeat. Line dance music. The floor shifted. Couples broke apart. Dancers formed lines. Destiny grabbed Daphne’s hand again. “Come on! This one’s fun!”

Daphne looked at Asher. He held up his hands. “I’m out.”

Daphne’s eyes widened, but she joined the line forming.

He watched her follow Destiny’s lead. Watched her laugh when she messed up the steps. Watched her get it right on the second try.

And standing there, watching Daphne Cross line dance with retirement community residents while paper leaves hung overhead and November chill drifted through open doors, Asher Morrison realized he was in serious trouble.

An hour later, they stood near the refreshment table. Daphne sipped cider. Asher tried the apple pie someone had brought—homemade, probably Ruthie’s.

Roger appeared beside them. Still scowling but less intensely. “Can we go yet?”

“We just got here,” Daphne said.