Abby Ryan has her whole life planned out, up until graduation that is. As a journalism student at the University of Southern Washington, she has one goal in mind for her last semester of senior year: secure a scholarship for graduate school. But whe...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
When I look over my shoulder and see Tristan Beck standing with his hands tucked into his pockets, I have to concentrate on not letting my face fall into the what the hell expression I know it wants to settle in.
He smiles politely and takes his hand out of his pocket, extending it to me. I consider his tanned, calloused fingers before raising my gaze to his.
"I was hoping I might be able to steal you away for a dance," he says, his voice smooth and calm, as if this isn't the most bizarre thing happening in the room.
Tristan Beck, star basketball player, playboy extraordinaire, is asking me to dance.
I stare up at him in shock, distrust quickly coursing through me as I glance back down at his outstretched hand.
Jenny makes a soft coughing noise, lit up with equal parts excitement and confusion as she nods at me.
I look back to Beck, who's still standing with his hand extended, his calm demeanor unfazed.
What the hell is going on?
My initial reaction is to decline, come up with some excuse, and make a beeline for the door because this obviously can't be real. It's a setup for a punchline I'm clearly not privy to or a bet the rest of his basketball team gave him. I can practically see the conversation playing out as I stare up at him—find the last girl you'd ever talk to and ask her to dance.
But the small voice in the back of my mind coaxing me to live a little is growing louder as Jenny's excited nod helps to shove the thoughts of bets and jokes to the back of my mind. I stand, place my hand in his, and follow him onto the dance floor. His hand swallows my own, and I can feel the rough edges of his fingertips against my knuckles. His hands are warm despite the chill coming from the entrance doors, which keep swiveling open and closed with each couple who goes out "for fresh air" and comes back in with swollen lips and spotty lipstick.
My hands find his shoulders when he turns around, and I keep my eyes trained on a spot on the far wall over his shoulder as his hands slide into place on my waist. His touch warms the satin fabric and heats right through to my skin.
The music has slowed, from the high-tempo and booming bass that vibrated right through the floor and up my legs, to a slow melody that I would have made a note to look up later if I could get my brain to function correctly. I don't know how to slow dance. I've never actually done it before, aside from with my dad at the few weddings we went to when I was younger. He'd hold me close and lead me into a sweet slow dance for a few moments before the spark of his mischievous grin had us pulling out our go-to old-school moves—a clash of chaotic movements against the sweet melodies we'd previously swayed to. It usually earned us a handful of smiles from the slow-dancing couples around us, but I don't think doing the robot will help me out much in this situation.
I think Tristan can sense my hesitation because his grip on my waist tightens as he leads me into a slow, swaying motion, perfectly timed with the song's tempo.
