Page 72 of First-Time Caller
“I need change,” she says.
“I know. That’s why you’re doing the show.”
“No.” She sighs. “Like coins. For the machine. To play music.”
“Oh.” I dig into my pocket and hand her two quarters.
“Thank you,” she says primly.
She drops them into the tiny slot and presses the appropriate buttons, her tongue caught between her teeth. The violin intro starts and a cheer goes up around the bar. She holds out her hand to me again.
“I gave you all my quarters,” I tell her.
“I’m not asking for quarters.”
I slap our hands together again.
“Stop giving me high fives.”
“Can’t help it,” I mumble. She wiggles her fingers and I blink at her. “What? What are you asking for?”
“I can’t dance to ‘Thong Song’ by myself, Aiden.”
“I bet you can.”
She stomps her foot and I laugh. Next to us, Sisqó is singing about “dumps like a truck, truck, truck.” I feel like maybe I’ve fallen through the floor and entered an alternate universe. I’ve either had too much or not enough to drink for this.
“Aiden,” she says again, slipping closer. “Dance with me. Please.”
“Lucie,” I whisper back. “Don’t make me publicly dance to ‘Thong Song.’”
She twists her hips back and forth to the beat, her bottom lip jutting out. I should not find that as sexy as I do.
“Fine,” I groan, trying not to smile when she gives a happy little cheer, feet marching in place and her arms raised above her head. The hem of her skirt rises two inches. I tug it back down, then clasp my hands behind my back. “I’m just going to sway,” I warn her.
“Swaying is fine,” she agrees quickly. She fists the front of my shirt and drags me into the middle of a two-by-two section of sticky hardwood. The two bearded men who were sitting at the bar earlier are at a high-top table now and they’re no less confused by our antics.
Lucie loops her arms around my neck and smooshes her cheek against my shoulder. After three hazy seconds of consideration, I cup the back of her head and dig my fingers into her hair. We slowly drift back and forth, not at all following the beat of the song. On the other end of our makeshift dance floor, two frat boys in matching candy-colored polos do a drunken line dance.
“You know, for being stood up, tonight actually turned out okay.” Lucie tips her face toward mine and all I see is green, green, green.Hedera canariensis, I think blearily,but prettier.The prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.
“I think that’s your third gin and tonic talking.”
She huffs. “Is it impossible to think I’d have a good time with you?”
“Very few people would refer to me asa good time.”
“I find that hard to believe.” Her gaze drifts lazily across my face.
I can feel my heartbeat in the palms of my hands, the backs of my knees, the hollow of my throat. The place on my neck where Lucie’s fingertips are tracing featherlight patterns. I try to figure out what she’s writing there, then decide I don’t care. As long as she keeps doing it.
I smooth my palm down her spine and tuck her closer. I’m letting myself glide down the slippery slope of affection, content to gather these moments and hold them close for tomorrow, when we haven’t consumed an entire bar and I need to pretend my eyes don’t catch on Lucie every time she enters a room.
I think I have a crush, and that’s the last thing I fucking need.
“You’re a good dancer,” I murmur against her temple.
“This isn’t dancing,” she replies sleepily.
