Page 27 of Pour Decisions (Stryker Family #3)

I love the vibe—no one is here to impress anyone or hookup. People are just here to dance. So far the music is good, upbeat classics, and I hope it continues to be. JD laces his fingers in mine again and guides me to the edge of the dance floor, where we slip in among other couples.

JD has rhythm, and the past ten years have made him more comfortable in his body. He moves with quiet grace, syncing up with me easily. I miss dancing with a partner who clicks with me.

“I forgot that you’re pretty good at this,” I tease, swiveling my hips.

“Not nearly as good as you, but I’m glad I’m not embarrassing myself. I literally haven’t danced since that time you took me to a salsa class at Crescent Hill,” he says, resting a hand low on my back.

“Like you don’t dance on principle? Like the town in Footloose but a person?” I start turning and he follows my lead.

“I just haven’t had a lot of opportunities or desire to.” He shrugs, pulling me close. “I haven’t wanted to dance with anyone else. It wouldn’t be the same. I think the last place where I had the opportunity was Wes’s wedding.”

I can’t imagine him dancing with anyone else, nor do I want to. I’m glad this is a thing that’s just for us.

“Do you still dance?” he asks. “Besides this, I mean.”

“Sometimes I’ll do a class, but it’s more of a fitness thing than a dance thing. Not as often as I’d like to because of work.” I lean against him as we sway. “I miss it. I should have taken more advantage of things like this when I lived in Nashville, but I didn’t have anyone to go with.”

His expression darkens. “Your ex wouldn’t go dancing with you?”

I shake my head. “No. He…he couldn’t dance.”

JD blinks. “He couldn’t dance?”

“He wasn’t great at it.” I bury my face against his lapel. “I mean, he tried. But he got upset when we didn’t flow. I just wanted him to relax and he wouldn’t. Then he’d get mad…”

JD’s eyes narrow. The irritation under his stormy expression is so intense that I’m torn between surprise and pleasure that he’s mad on my behalf.

JD might be a solid dancer, but it’s not his thing.

He’s willing to do it for me, though. My ex was my “type”—or at least my pre-JD type of a vaguely artsy guy—but he wasn’t willing to stretch beyond his little box of theater.

And god forbid he showed interest in anything I was interested in.

Even going to a dance performance was out of the question for us without him making me feel like he was doing me a favor for taking me out once a month.

“Okay, changing the topic,” I say, going for a turn. “Because I don’t want to think of him when I’m with you.”

“Good.” He catches me, putting his hand around my waist. “Back to dancing. Did you stop because of your knee?”

“Pretty much. Or at least that brought it to a screeching halt.” Memories of those days make my head feel hazy.

It wasn’t long after our breakup and I was lost on basically every front in my life.

“Losing dance when I was in that time in my life sucked, but if I hadn’t been injured, I wouldn’t have discovered physical therapy as a career option.

And to be real, the professional dancer life would have eaten me alive. ”

“But you’re an incredible dancer,” he says, so sweet and sincere.

I was good, but not so good that I’d be cast left and right or join a top-tier company. I’m a decent singer, but not nearly good enough to book musicals without a ton of extra practice.

“Thank you, but casting directors would probably disagree. I went to some auditions and they were brutal.” I shudder at the memories.

“I pushed myself too hard. And it’s not like I could get rest and audition and pay the bills consistently.

So physical therapy was the best path. I’m glad I took it because dance just became fun. And I healed my injury too.”

“I’m glad you found it.” The music shifts to something slower. “Because we found each other again.”

I smile and tuck myself against him. I could stay here forever, gently rocking and barely even dancing.

I had moments of calm like this in my marriage, but it was a forced calm—meditation, a hot bath, whatever it took to ease the ball of stress inside me.

This is a new level of calm. Of safe. I can just be myself and not do mental gymnastics to keep myself happy.

We dance for a while longer, until we have to leave for our dinner reservation. I’m glad my dress has a little stretch to it, because the moment we walk into the restaurant, I know I’m going to destroy a plate of whatever they have. It smells like heaven, and all the plates going by look delicious.

The food is just as good as it looks—spicy and authentically Cajun. We don’t have room for dessert, so we take some bread pudding to go.

“Thank you for putting this second, because I’m going to lay the fuck down once we get back to the room and digest like a snake that just ate a massive rat,” I say when we get into the elevator at the hotel.

“Good, because that’s my plan too.”

After I wash off my makeup, we undress—I steal one of his shirts, and he strips down to his boxers—and climb into bed again. We slide into our spots like we always did back then, with him as the big spoon.

When we were together the first time, we probably would have finished off the night with another round of sex. But tonight, both of us are passed out in seconds in a food coma. We can always have more fun in the morning.