she dares, and so I do. I do what I’ve been hungry to do since I saw her, and I slide my hand around the dip of her waist, resting it against the tempting dimples at the small of her back and fighting the urge to slide my hand even lower. And then I pull her close to me as my other hand tightens around hers. She shivers again. I smile. It doesn’t take me long to find the music and sweep us into a simple two-step. I’m a serviceable dancer—some cousin demanded all the Bell boys take dancing lessons before her wedding, and I’ve managed to squeeze some use out of that exhausting experience at
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