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“You’re joking,” she said. Not a question. Hehadto be joking. She couldn’t…she couldn’tdancewith him. Dancing was intimate. It meant bodies touching and moving together. She was smart enough to know where her brain would go and how much that would be written all over her face.

A woman did not win a challenge whenlustwas written all over her face. She had to apply some tactical advantage here and there. Gabe in a suit and that obnoxious dimple she could see so clearly on his completely clean-shaven face had the tactical advantage.

“Not joking. Dance with me.”

“Why?” She just didn’t trust that. Besides, he wasn’tasking. He was demanding, and she was not prone to following other people’s demands.

“Want to know the truth?”

“Pretty much always.”

Gabe nodded toward Colin. “Put me up to it.”

She frowned at that, glancing at where Colin was face down in his video game. “Why would he do that?”

“He said, and I quote, ‘I don’t want my mom to be the loser who didn’t dance at all.’”

Her jaw dropped. “He did not say that!”

“Okay, he didn’t saythat, but it was the gist. Him worried you were…” He shifted a little bit, that apathetic charm slipping for just a second. “Lonely,” he finished, not meeting her gaze.

Something sharp and sad wound around her chest.Lonely. Such a strange word. She didn’t feel lonely. She had friends. Family. A job she valued and a son to care for. Her days were filled with human interaction.

Butlonelywrapped around her, a truth she’d been refusing to acknowledge.Lonely. Yes, she was. A part of her anyway. TheMonicapart of her she wasn’t so sure existed anymore. Except, that little pang seemed to suggest it did.

“Come on.” This time, he took her hand. Just took it like it was his to take and pulled her to her feet. She could have stopped him. It wasn’t like he wasdraggingher, but her feet were moving along at the pace he set toward the dance floor.

Then he just pulled her into him, like it was natural or normal to feel his body brush hers. To have the hand not holding hers on the small of her back while an instrumental version of “I’ll Be Home for Christmas” filled the barn.

She wasn’t a tiny woman by any means. She’d inherited her father’s height and breadth, but somehow Gabe’s hand still seemed to take up the entirety of the small of her back. Somehow, he still had some inches on her even though she was in low heels.

But the mix of Gabe and the pretty, silky, feminine dress she was wearing reminded every last cell of her body that she was a woman, and she hadn’t been touched like this inquitea long time.

“IhateChristmas music,” he muttered.

It steadied her some. That grumpy complaint. Sohim. She might find him attractive, but she had for months, and she’d kept a certain professional distance. But you couldn’t exactly be a therapist to a guy you’d pictured naked. It didn’t mean she had to give in to the nerves and flutters though.

Even if she was slowly opening herself up to the possibility… Well, itwasa possibility, wasn’t it? If he could get over his hatred of her profession, and she could learn to treat someone like a person, not a patient.

Talk about your slim possibilities.

She shook away that pessimistic thought and smiled sweetly up at him. “You know what I’d love to know, Gabe. Whatissomething you like?”

“What do I like?” he said as if considering all the possible things he might like. He didn’t say anything more than that, but his body was just a centimeter closer to hers, so that her breasts brushed against his chest. So that she could feel his breath on her neck, so that his cheek glanced hers.

Something like a shudder wound through her, then held deep in her belly. Everywhere they touched felt like something between a featherlight caress and static electricity.

There was nothing unintentional about any of it, she realized. The pause, the closeness. Suddenly she could imagine all the things he might like, and she had no doubt that was his intention.

“I like whiskey,” he offered, his voice so low she involuntarily leaned her ear closer to his mouth to hear it better. “I like baseball. Go Yankees.”

“Ew.”

“Oh, don’t be one of those obnoxious Yankee haters.”

“Don’t be one of those obnoxious Yankee fans,” she retorted. It was odd. Feeling like an out-of-control, hormone-driven teenager and then moments of adulthood clarity was…weird. But not off-putting. In fact, there was something oddly exhilarating about it.

“Why are you a Yankees fan?”