There was something different between us this time. The first time we’d entered the competition together, it had been a joke, but we’d moved well together. Then we’d done it again because it had been expected. This time, the tension between us as we moved to the music was entirely noticeable—and increasingly awkward.
The dance floor thinned as the judges made their way through.
He pulled back and studied me. “Are we gonna try to win this thing or not?”
Damn. Even he could tell I was phoning it in, pulling back when I should have been moving close, withdrawing from his touch when I should have been pressing into it.
The DJ blended one song into the next and transitioned into a song with a faster beat.
I flashed Kennedy a look over my shoulder and then I took his hand and pressed it against my stomach, rolling my hips to the beat. He spun me back to face him and we moved like that for a minute. The push-pull of the dance was so appropriate. I’d step away, and he’d pull me back in. He’d give me his touch and then take it away. We didn’t move in tandem so much as in opposition to one another, like some long, teasing mating ritual.
The song worked its way to its crescendo and Kennedy drew my body against his. His hand wrapped around the back of my neck. His other hand found the back of my thigh, drew my leg up around his waist, and lowered me into a dip, his mouth inches from mine.
The audience clapped and cheered. I knew the applause was for us, but all I wanted was for him to mean it. The song ended and the crowd cheered as the DJ declared us the fourth-year winners. Kennedy gently released my leg and turned to shake the judges’ hands.
Then he turned back to me. He gathered me into his arms and swung me around. Again, the crowd cheered. Everyone loved Kennedy. He was the town golden boy, the football star, the mayor’s son. What wasn’t to love?
When he settled me onto my feet again, there was a moment I thought he might kiss me. God, I wanted him to. So badly. I wanted him to delve his hands into my hair and crush his mouth against mine. I’d even settle for an innocent brushing of lips. But he didn’t. He wouldn’t.
I backed away, swallowing and reminding myself that indulging those fantasies did me no favors. “I had a long day,” I said. “I’m gonna cut out early.”
“The winners are supposed to have one more dance,” he protested, tugging on my fingers to pull me back into his arms.
I was too pathetic to protest. This was Kennedy, after all. Anytime he flashed a little dimple or looked at me through those impossibly thick lashes, I was a goner.
We swayed our hips to the music and he lowered his head until his mouth hovered above my ear. His breath sent uninvited shivers of pleasure through me.
“So, are we going to pretend it didn’t happen?” he asked. His voice was low and rough, and I wanted to rub against it, nuzzle it like a cat. You’ve lost your mind, some sane part of my brain told me. “Because I think we should talk about it.”
My head snapped back and my eyes went wide. “Talk about what?”
“October? You showing up unannounced? Naked in my bed? Ring any bells?”
This was not the conversation I’d expected to have tonight. Didn’t he want to pretend it hadn’t happened even more than I did?
His dark eyes softened as he studied me, and I stiffened at his pity. I hated that he felt sorry for me.
“Yes,” I finally said. “Yes, we’re going to pretend it didn’t happen. I hardly remember it anyway. You know me. I get drunk and do stupid things.”
“And then you avoid my calls for months? Fuck that, Bree.” I tried to escape his embrace, but he drew me tighter against him and whispered in my ear, “I’m not going to let you throw this friendship away just because you’re embarrassed by some dumb drunken mistake.”
Dumb drunken mistake? Five years of unrequited love and he thought the night I found the courage to act on it was a drunken mistake?
The vodka was getting to me. Or our dance was. Or both. In my half-tipsy state, I could almost imagine this conversation was going differently, going somewhere worthwhile even. Like my bed. Or fuck, against the wall in a bathroom stall here at the Juke’s. I wasn’t exactly picky at this point.
Was it really only three months ago that I’d flown back to Ohio to surprise Kennedy at school? I’d been so lonely. Because I didn’t love my life in New York as much as I’d said I did. New York was just like Seattle, which had been just like Chicago. Same loneliness, same floundering, different skyline.
I’d been dumped by another guy from my “revolving door of men,” as Kennedy liked to call them. The asshole had said I was “too unpredictable.” And all I could think was that Kennedy would never say that to me, that Kennedy liked that about me. I’d hopped on a plane and taken a cab from the airport to his dorm. I’d sipped peppermint schnapps the whole way there, and by the time I stumbled up to his door, my nerves had melted under the heat of too much alcohol. Slipping naked into his empty bed had seemed like a good idea.