Page 79 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
He doesn’t respond.
And he’s right. It is sort of like swaying, only . . . nicer.
I see Mrs. Ramirez and her husband dancing a few feet away and she gives me a wide grin and a little wave. She says something to her husband, which I imagine to be something along the lines of Isn’t that so cute, my two little worker bees are dancing.
“So,” he says, his head tilting down toward mine since he’s a good foot taller than me. “No Zach tonight.”
My fingers tighten reflexively on his. “No Zach.”
He nods once, and I think I feel his palm shift on my back, pulling me imperceptibly closer, but I don’t want to be wrong.
I glance up to find him watching me. “What?” I ask, “No snarky comment about my failed attempt at Operation Get-a-Boyfriend?”
He grins his old Garrett grin then, and I’ve got honest-to-God butterflies just at the sight of his smile. Things were so much simpler when I wasn’t so dang aware of the guy.
“Nah. I don’t want you to get all weepy on me. Besides, that’s old news.”
“You knew?”
“Sure. And I have a class with Zach.”
My footsteps falter. “He told you?”
Garrett shrugs. “I asked.”
Why? “Why?” I ask, deciding to be bold for once in my life. “Why did you ask?”
This time it’s not my imagination—his hand definitely moves on my back, his fingers widening slightly, setting my skin on fire even through the fabric of my dress.
“Christ, Gilmore,” he says, sounding annoyed, his chin brushing against my hair. “You really have no clue, do you?”
My heart is hammering now, and my hand is definitely sweaty in his, and there’s this almost painful knot of hope in my throat, but if I’m wrong . . .
The song isn’t over yet, but apparently our dance is, because all of a sudden I’m being pulled across the dance floor. “Where’s your coat?” he asks, shooting me a glance over his shoulder with unreadable eyes as we approach a side door.
“My coat?”
“Never mind,” he grumbles, already shrugging out of his suit coat and dropping it over my shoulder even as he ushers me none too gently out the door and into the cold.
“Garrett, it’s snowing,” I say, glancing around at the smattering of snowflakes. “You don’t have a coat, you’ll freeze—”
“This will take just a minute,” he says, walking in a crazed circle, apparently oblivious to the fact that he’s wearing only a white button-down shirt in New York in the middle of winter.
I pull his jacket more tightly around me and watch him nervously.
He stops his pacing and looks at me, his expression miserable through the thickening snowflakes. “You make me laugh, Anners.”
Well. Okay. That’s . . . random.
“You’re the only girl that’s ever done that,” he continues. “I mean really makes me laugh. And you never flirt with me. Ever. The very first day of work back in September, you called me an obnoxious egomaniac, do you remember that?”
I blush. “Sorry,” I mutter, “It’s just that you were so—”
He kisses me.
Not a slow, dreamy sort of kiss, but the hot, urgent kind that a guy plants on a girl to
get her to stop talking . . . or because he can’t help himself. His hand holds my head still as he deepens the kiss, but just as I let my fingers sink into his shirt, he lifts his head.
