Not the Rebound Guy by Abby Knox (popular books of all time .txt) 📗

my lead around the dance floor, our bodies a little closer together than most. I was always taught it’s better to keep enough distance from my partner so nobody steps on the other’s feet, but with Eliza, it feels like we were made to move as one. “Where’d you learn the two-step?” I ask.

Eliza grins. “Piper’s Grove High School physical education. It’s pretty much a graduation requirement. And six years of dance team as a girl.”

“I’m impressed. I learned by going to way too many country bars over the years and spending way too much money on beer.”

She smiles and keeps her eyes on me as our feet take us around and around. With one hand keeping her close and the other hand holding hers, I’m tempting to buck tradition and draw her in even closer. I want to feel her warmth, inhale the perfume on her neck. The organized movement of our feet has been secondary; our eyes communicate some distant storms brewing.

At the end of the song, I turn and dip Eliza over my knee, my heart knocking against my ribcage. For that half a second while we’re dipping, she looks up at me with curious eyes, parted lips. The friendly smile is gone, replaced with a look of cautious invitation to try. It’s purely chemical, and my blood reacts like baking soda to vinegar. I blink, not knowing where to look but not daring to look away. My eyes drift down to her mouth as she bites her lip.

I have no idea how long we’ve been holding this pose. Probably only for a second, but it feels like an entire minute. I can’t control the faint groan from deep inside my chest.

By the time I set her back upright, me back to standing, I feel out of breath and not from the dancing.

We clap in appreciation for the band, who announces, “We’re going to slow it way down for all you romantics out there.”

Eliza’s eyes go wide, and she panics. I can’t blame her; this is too much for a friendly outing. She turns away from me and beelines for the booth.

I let her have a head start before I chase after her.

“You don’t have to slow dance with me if you don’t want to,” I say when I meet her at our table.

She smiles up at me as the server delivers another round. “Good,” she says. “Because that was too much fun for my broken heart to handle. So sit down and drink with me and let’s compare all of our worst breakups.”

The house is dark when we return, fairly buzzed, and we slip our boots off on the porch and quietly creep inside. Fortunately, I’d remembered to put Gertie to bed with her baby goats tonight. Helen pads over from her cushion, and both Eliza and I keep her quiet with a quick belly rub.

It’s past midnight, and the four of us, including Nora and her husband Jake, sat and drank several more rounds while rehashing all of our most horrifying dating experiences. Everyone decided it was best to walk home.” It made me happy to see Eliza laugh with us at all of our stories, and it made me hope she realizes that she’s not alone. We also danced some more, but I was a good boy and kept my hands to myself. Mostly.

If all that happens is Eliza and I end up friends, I’m grateful for a friend.

That’s what my brain tries to tell my body anyway.

My arms want one more dance. My nose wants to be close to her hair. And my lips want to explore every inch of her.

I’ve had too much beer. Too much of a good time.

I carefully hold the door open for Eliza and whisper, “Well, this is where I get off.”

She covers her mouth, snorts, then shushes herself. “Oh, but I hate it that you’re sleeping on the floor. That’s going to kill your back.”

“Hey,” I say sloppily. “Have you tried sleeping on Betty’s couch? It’s way worse.”

Eliza protests. “No way, I’ve slept on that sofa a million times, and it was fine. Of course, back in the day when it was still covered with plastic, I would wake up covered in sweat, but still not uncomfortable.”

I pat her on the head and whisper, “That’s because you’re five foot nothing, and my body is ninety percent legs.”

“Hey,” she says, drunkenly pointing a finger in my face. “I’ll have you know I’m five feet eight inches, and your chest is way more impressive than your legs, mister.” She raps her palm repeatedly against my sternum, close to where my heart hammers two hundred bpm for her. I’d like to let her continue doing that to me. Whatever she wants, as long as she’s touching me.

She’s a friend. Friend. Can’t take advantage of her drunken state.

“Thanks for letting me tag along on your girls’ night out,” I say.

Eliza’s face falters. “Oh. You weren’t tagging along. You’re an essential member of the club, now.”

“Club?”

“My exclusive list of people who are allowed to take up my time. It’s all in my planner. Top of the list: Grams, then Nora, and you, sir”—she points at me dramatically—“are now tied with Nora.”

“You have a list? You wrote it down?”

She nods vigorously. “I make lists. My whole life is lists and planning pages. I don’t just buy planners; I make planning systems. When your life is spinning out of control, more planning is the answer.”

“That’s quite a catchphrase for your new business enterprise,” I say.

I’m still holding the door open, and yet, Eliza is not going inside. Instead, she grabs the front of my shirt. “Garrett! We are so on the same wavelength. I just don’t have the time. That’s the thing. If I wasn’t working 60 hours a week, I might use some of the business planning pages that I created! Isn’t that the saddest thing you’ve ever heard?”

I laugh, “Not nearly the saddest. OK, time for you to sleep it