I stared at him. “Marcus, I can’t.”
He nodded once, as if that didn’t change anything.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out what dancing looks like.”
Before I could protest, he wheeled me out onto the dance floor.
I stiffened immediately. “People are staring.”
“They were already staring.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It helps me,” he said lightly. “Makes me feel less rude.”
I laughed before I could stop myself.
He took my hands. He didn’t move around me—he moved with me. He spun the chair once, then again—slowly at first, then faster when he saw I wasn’t afraid. He grinned like we were getting away with something.
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