Wild Heart Summer by Jones Jenny B

Author:Jones, Jenny B. [Jones, Jenny B.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sweet Pea Productions
Published: 2015-10-05T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

Be still my heart and every other fluttery part of me.

Owen slips his hand to the nape of my neck where my hair covers the goose bumps on my flesh. My skin warms beneath his caress.

He leans in, his breath a feather brushing my ear. “Would you like to dance?” he asks.

I close my eyes and sigh. He just had to go and ruin it. “I don’t really know—”

Owen ignores my protest, laces his fingers with mine, and pulls me toward the floor. We weave in through two-stepping couples until he finally stops right in the middle of the makeshift dance floor.

“I don’t know how this works.” I stand there feeling like Cinderella, one minute after midnight— a little hopeful, a little shamed.

“Didn’t you go to dances as a teenager?”

He pulls me closer with a light grip on my hip. If only dancing were no more than this—bodies pressed together and hands in all the right places.

“Of course I went to dances,” I say. “And I used that time to artfully arrange the cookies and add shots of vanilla to the punch.” Vanilla that I kept in a vial in my purse. “The boys kind of looked over me.”

“I don’t believe that for a second.”

“Can we just not do this?” Everyone around us seems to know what to do. They’re scooting, spinning, swaying. It’s like the Ice Capades. In a barn. “Let’s go back to the lodge.” I stare deeply into his eyes and bat my eye lashes. “I’ll let you get to second base.”

He lifts a brow. “Someone really does have bad dance memories.”

“Yep. So I think I hear the crab pot stickers calling me and—”

My words die on my lips as Owen slowly slides his fingers down the length of my bare arm, his touch sending a fever right through me.

“This hand goes on my shoulder.” His voice is a light whisper against my ear. “Then this hand, I get to hold.” With a palm at my back, he draws me closer.

I revel in the feel of being in his arms—the safety, the comfort, the heat. I want to close my eyes, lean my head on his chest, and forget we’re surrounded by people. This force that is Owen—it’s too much and not enough. I find myself thinking of him relentlessly, wondering what he’s doing, wondering if I cross his mind half as much as he crosses mine.

“Are you paying attention?” Owen’s lips tease as they hover temptingly close to mine.

I realize he’s been talking. My cheeks flush pink, and I meet his knowing eyes. “Yes. I’m listening.”

He proceeds to show me the basics of the two-step. While he’s surprisingly fluid and graceful as he moves, I’m stiff and choppy. Owen continues with the lesson, even coaxing me into trying a spin. I crash right into his abs—a wonderful consolation prize, if I do say so.

“I’m terrible at this,” I huff a few songs later as I step on the foot of a lady beside us.

“You’re overthinking it.

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