I stared at him. “Marcus, I can’t.”
He nodded once.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out what dancing looks like.”
I laughed before I meant to.
Before I could protest, he wheeled me onto the dance floor.
I went rigid. “People are staring.”
“They were already staring.”
“That doesn’t help.”
“It helps me,” he said. “Makes me feel less rude.”
I laughed before I meant to.
When the song ended, he rolled me back to my table.
He took my hands. He moved with me instead of around me. He spun the chair once, then again, slower the first time and faster the second after he saw I wasn’t scared. He grinned like we were getting away with something.
“For the record,” I said, “this is insane.”
“For the record, you’re smiling.”
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