Law #3: Don't Fall for the Athlete: Sweet Second Chance Romance (Laws of Love) by Agnes Canestri (ebook and pdf reader .txt) 📕

I blink at Wyatt’s soup bowl, which is empty. Mine is still mostly full, but my stomach couldn’t possibly take anything in after our chat, so I point at the dance floor and force a cheerful smile onto my face. “What do you say if we change our mood by dancing a bit?”

Wyatt’s face illuminates as if I’m throwing him a lifeline. “Great idea.”

We stand up and take our soup bowls back to Tio Filippo.

A cha-cha-cha song is just ending as we get closer to the stage. The singer, a guy with a straw hat and a serious bling-bling belt, coughs into the mic. “Now, we’ll do a nice Tush Push, y’all. Let’s start. But beware, this one’ll be a real quickie. So if you’ve got a pair of shiny, new boots, you may end up with blisters.”

I poke Wyatt on the shoulder and, with a grin, glance meaningfully at his new shoes. “This song isn’t for you then. What a pity.”

I aim to lift his mood with my mocking, and I score bull’s eye, because his lips curl up.

“Are you challenging me?” he asks.

Giddy vibrations sizzle through my chest, and without wanting to, I shift into a way too flirtatious tone. “What if I am?”

“Then I say…” He wiggles his brow and grabs my wrist.

Before I can protest, he hauls me into the fourth line of dancers, where there’s enough space for both of us.

My heartbeat shoots to the roof at his unexpected touch, and I cover up my excitement with more banter. “Are you sure? You heard the singer; you may get blisters.”

Wyatt gives me a dazzling smile. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse.”

A lively tune fills the air. The singer wasn’t lying. He’d picked a speedy song for us.

The dancers tap their heels and touch their toes to the ground, and I do my best to pick up their rhythm. Though it’s been a while since I line danced, my feet immediately jump to the right moves.

After the first clap, I’m relaxed enough to peek at Wyatt. I’m curious to see how he’s doing. In my experience, very muscular men aren’t the most graceful hoofers—my brother isn’t—but Wyatt is nothing like Devon when he moves. Wyatt isn’t just the sexiest man on the dance floor by far, but also surprisingly graceful for his tall frame.

While I’m staring at him, I accidentally slide against the dancer in front of me, who just shuffled backward like everyone else. I quickly apologize and return to my place.

Wyatt chuckles. “Maybe it’s you who’s got trouble with the pace, hon.”

My cheeks warm, probably tinting into the hue of the spiciest salsa roja.

Why did I have to catch Wyatt in the middle of the movement that gives this dance its name?

Two girls turn their heads to us to tell Wyatt to shut up, but as their gazes lock in on his hips, they almost trip. You see? It’s obviously not my fault. The sight of Wyatt’s tush swinging should come with a warning label for young wo—

“Darlene, watch your foot. What’s gotten into you?” A grumpy baritone behind me complains.

I whip my head around and see a lady who’s probably my mom’s age tear her glance away from Wyatt’s behind and then struggle to adjust herself back to the song’s beat.

Okay, scratch that. Warning label for all women—without age restriction.

Chapter 28

(Wyatt)

After the Tush Push ends, the band continues with Boot Scootin’ Boogie without a break.

The line before us steps to the right, and I follow along to place my right foot in the correct position. While pulling my left foot behind the right, my eyes seek Ellie.

Most likely thinking I glanced at her because I don’t know what comes next, she says, “Vine left, kick right, kick left, kick right.”

“Ah, right,” I murmur, though I know this song’s choreography by heart.

It was my father’s favorite, and the only one at any festival that would lure him onto the dance floor to join my mother. Before I can reflect on why Dad’s popping into my head so often today, Ellie adds with a grin, “Now the best part: Stomp, stomp, kick, kick ball change.”

The keen edge in her voice pumps my blood and empties my head of my worries. We continue turning, tapping, and jumping as the beats require, and I realize I’m having tremendous fun.

In Georgia, I don’t concede myself the pleasure of a night out too often, and even when I do, I never have company as charming as Ellie.

Probably because there’s no one else quite like her.

When the tunes of “Hoedown Throwdown” start, I call out to her, “I’m gonna sit this one out.”

“Not a Hannah Montana fan?” she asks, picking up the pace of the new song.

“Nah. I’m too old for this.” I grin and move to the side of the dance floor.

I’m not really tired. A bit of line dancing isn’t comparable to the workouts I’m used to. But I’d love to admire how Ellie does the country hip-hop grooves without the risk of accidentally knocking over the other dancers.

Ellie nods to me, but her lips are already humming the song’s lyrics, while her body follows the beats in perfect synchrony.

As she jumps to the left, she sticks her boot heel to the ground and glides backward in an agile movement while raising her hand. A wave of heat rushes to my belly. She looks entirely absorbed by the music and at ease with herself. She doesn’t count or watch her steps, and each and every movement she makes blends in with the melody.

The technician in charge of the lighting moves a spotlight behind the band.

Suddenly it’s like the whole universe is conspiring to make it impossible to peel my eyes off Ellie. The sparkling stream lands on her, turning the fine mist of perspiration covering her skin into tiny, shiny beads and making her face glow with a surreal beauty.

I know I should probably not stare at Ellie but—

I stop mid-track as an assignment she gave me after our fourth session comes to