Page 104 of The Publicity Stunt

He looks down at me, his thumb tracing tiny circles against my hipbone, our foreheads inches apart. I see the shallow rise and fall of his chest and instant heat spreads across my own chest. I glance to the side, hoping like hell the blue lighting doesn’t bring out the redness on my face, and curve my lips in a smile.

Parker rests his forehead against my temple and, for some godforsaken reason, laughs. “April Moore,” he says, his breath falling against my cheek, “you’re fucking adorable when you’re flustered.”

“I’m not flustered,” I say and look at him. His hands tighten slightly on my waist. His thumb is still tracing tiny circles on my hip. Fuck, Iamflustered. I’m flustered as shit.

“Whatever you say, Chere.” Parker spins me around, my back flattening against his chest. “Whatever you say.” His voice comes out low.

I swallow and turn myself around, looking to my side, my arms sliding back over his shoulders. We move like that for a few more seconds, pressed up against each other, the heat from his body radiating against mine, the music filling up the space around us, when—to my disappointment—he moves back, his hands finally sliding off me.

“You still like ABBA, right?” he yells.

“Of course!” I yell back.

Gripping my left hand, he pulls me into him, his palm splayed across my lower back. My face becomes hot. Red hot. White hot. Every-color hot? “Good,” he says and spins me around one more time, sliding both hands down to my waist. I reflexively bring my palms up to his chest.

The song starts to fade. I look toward the stage and the next song smoothly fades in.

“Gimme! Gimme! Gimme!” Another chorused cheer from the crowd and this time the two of us join in too.

The initial instrumental beats start playing.

“Come on, Chere!” Parker’s waving his arms above his head, not at all in sync with the music. “Don’t leave me hanging!” He looks ridiculous.

I love it.

Laughing and singing—more like scream-singing—he pulls me close, bumping his hip into mine.

I take three small steps away from him and move my hands in the glowing space between us, pulling him toward me with an invisible rope.

And he obliges; skipping toward me, trying very hard not to laugh. Which only makes me laugh more.

He places his hands on my shoulders, I mimic him, and we start jumping to the chorus, “Gimme, gimme, gimme a man after midnight, won’t somebody help me chase the shadows awaaay!”

He slides his palm behind me, cupping my back, and lowers me in a dip, and I’m pretty sure the sound of my laugh is louder than the music by now. “I need a breather!” he yells.

I take his hand in mine and twirl him around.

“That made me feel so special!” He smiles and we resume our dancing.

I could stay here forever, I think. Another twirl.I really could. Another dip.

No matter how sweaty we are, how crowded this place is, or how my hair is most definitely going to be reeking of secondhand smoke tomorrow, as long as Parker is holding my hand, trying to navigate his way around my two left feet, I’m happy. And if not happy-happy, at least something like it.

“Okay!” he yells as the song eventually comes to an end. “Grandpa definitely needs a breather!” Grabbing my hand, he pulls me through the crowd and off the dance floor.

“I think the guy on the stage was onto something when he decided not to wear a shirt tonight,” Parker says, mouth close to my ear.

“Sweating is part of the fun!” I yell, the music still throbbing in my ears.

“Said no one ever!” he shouts back as we reach the bar once again.

The song winds down. “Voulez-Vouz” starts to play.

* * *

It’s around one in the morning when we finally make it out of the club, drenched in sweat and not drunk at all.

“I don’t think I’ve ever had more fun in my whole adult life,” I tell him as we step out onto the sidewalk.