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He pushes his chair back and stands up, holding out his hand. “C’mon. Dance with me.”
“I can’t dance,” you protest, but Dean doesn’t take no for an answer when it comes to music.
He pulls your chair out and leads you up. “Yes, you can.”
“Wait,” you say, reaching back to set your glass down. When he whips you back into his arms, your heart flutters. He smells like whiskey and clean cotton laundry soap and sweat, and for some reason, it’s nearly as intoxicating as the drink. He sings in your ear as you sway back and forth in his arms like middle school kids at the spring formal.
The song finally ends, and just as you start to pull away, he tightens his embrace when the plucky metallic twangs of “Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton start floating toward the ceiling. “No, no. We’re not done yet.”