“Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out what dancing looks like.”
Before I could protest, he rolled me onto the dance floor.
I went stiff. “People are staring.”
“They were already staring.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It helps me,” he said. “Makes me feel less rude.”
I laughed before I meant to.
He took my hands. He moved with me instead of around me. He spun the chair once, then again—slower the first time and faster the second after he saw I wasn’t afraid. He grinned like we were getting away with something.
“For the record,” I said, “this is insane.”
“For the record, you’re smiling.”
When the song ended, he wheeled me back to my table.
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