“Savor it,” she repeats. And then she nods, relaxing. “I like that.”
She takes my hand and I lead her farther onto the terrace, where a tent with a dance floor has been erected, waiting for the after-dinner crowd to come for drinks and dancing. But it’s mostly empty now, and there’s only a lone employee carrying out trays of waiting champagne flutes and a speaker piping in music from the sextet in the lobby.
“How about a dance first?” I ask.
She looks around the tent, and some of her earlier confidence creeps back into her expression. “Are you sure you’re any good at dancing?”
“I’m excellent at dancing,” I say, nettled. “I’m like, probably the best in the world at it.”
“Prove it,” she dares, and so I do. I do what I’ve been hungry to do since I saw her, and I slide my hand aroun
