Before I can react, his arm’s shot out and grabbed me by the waist, and he’s tickling me within an inch of my life. I shriek and writhe as I try to escape, but it’s a long, torturous few seconds before I’m able to twist out of his grasp.
I point at him with my arm extended, like I’m holding him at sword’s length. “Don’t even think about doing that again,” I wheeze, still catching my breath.
His eyes are alight with humor. “I don’t think I’m the only one who had too many drinks at dinner.”
He’s not wrong; I am feeling a little fuzzy at the edges. Against my better judgment—and spurred on by the giddy adolescent energy that always seems to accompany a night out with my sister—I indulged in more wine than was probably wise given the circumstances. The easy, natural camaraderie of our foursome only served to blur the line even further. There were times tonight when I nearly forgot that Jack is my sworn enemy. Forgot this isn’t a real date.
I think I’ll also blame the booze for the fact that when he grabs my hand and starts swinging it between us as we walk, I don’t let go.
There’s loud music blaring up ahead, a group of people gathered around observing something, and when we make it to the edge of the crowd I spot the main attraction: an elderly couple is dancing in the center of the circle, and it’s the most wholesome spectacle I’ve ever seen in Times Square. We stand and watch as the thin, slightly stooped man twirls his gray-haired partner in a spin, and the smile she aims back at him is so adoring, my heart melts like soft serve in humidity. “Wow. How cute are they?”
He nudges my shoulder. “And to think, you would’ve missed this.”
I pull a face, but I can’t even pretend to be mad. “I love this song,” I tell him, humming a few bars of “Cry to Me.”
“Solomon Burke is one of the best.”
I blink at him, surprised. “You know your golden oldies,” I say approvingly.
“Motown’s my mom’s favorite. It’s all we listened to growing up.”
“Your mom has good taste.” I can’t help swaying back and forth. “This song will always remind me of Dirty Dancing. Gosh, it’s such a great scene.” It’s also one of the steamiest scenes in the movie, but I leave that part out. I can hear Jennifer Grey’s heartfelt confession now: “Most of all I’m scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I’m with you!” Pretty sure the rest of us felt the same way about Swayze and his bare chest. Hungry eyes, indeed.
“Don’t you feel like that era of music is so much better than ours?” I muse aloud, snapping my fingers to the beat. On this, Gran’s generation wins hands down.
He doesn’t answer, and when I glance over at him I see he’s watching me with amusement.
“What?” I ask, immediately self-conscious. I’ve been told I dance like Phoebe Buffay runs, and I do not need to be showing Jack that side of me.
He nods his head toward the silver surfers. “Should we give them a run for their money?”
“You’re joking.”
He arches a brow.
“You’re not joking.” He grins wickedly. “Jack, we can’t do that!” I hiss.
“Pretty sure there’s no law saying you have to be over eighty to dance in Times Square. Unless, of course, you don’t dirty dance?” His eyes flicker with mischief.
Very funny. “Don’t you think we should watch respectfully, then clap politely at the end?”
He purses his lips like he’s considering it. “Nah, I think we should take ’em.”
I meet his eyes, which somehow look both heated and dark. “You’re trouble.”
“I’ve definitely thought the same about you.” He holds out a hand. “Come on. Let’s be the embarrassing tourists now.”
As his invitation—and hand—hang in the air, out of nowhere my mind flashes to a long-forgotten childhood memory.
As kids, my sister and I were obsessed with The Sound of Music （to the point where our brother would beg us to watch something—anything—else）。 But we could never get enough of the singing and dancing, the yodeling marionettes, the playclothes stitched from curtains. We were hopelessly devoted to Julie Andrews and just as hopelessly in love with Christopher Plummer’s Captain von Trapp, and utterly enthralled by his transformation from stern authoritarian to besotted paramour.
But our most favorite part—the scene we watched again and again until we had every step memorized—was when the captain exited the ballroom to discover Maria teaching Kurt the Laendler, the Austrian folk dance. We’d swoon over the way he adjusted his gloves as he prepared to cut in, certain there was nothing more romantic than the way his eyes tracked Maria’s every move, his smug grin when she took his hand, the restrained passion with which he twirled her around the marbled patio. I used to dream of the day when a man would look at me with such intention, such raw desire in his eyes. The way Jack’s looking at me right now.
As the memory shimmers and fades around me, I find myself taking his hand and letting him tug me out into the center of the circle, and then I’m in his arms and we’re doing an improvised foxtrot in the middle of Times Square.
I don’t even have to heed Betty’s nagging reminders to Let him lead! because Jack’s doing that all on his own, pressing me against him with one hand low on my back and the other clasping my palm to his chest. When he spins me out unexpectedly I let out a squeal of surprised delight, and it’s just the thing to help me shed any lingering self-consciousness and surrender to the moment. Honestly, I’m not sure it gets more “only in New York” than this; I feel like I’m in a movie montage. I half expect a flash mob to break out.
You said you wanted chivalry, Betty singsongs, and I suppose she’s got me there.
He must sense the change in me, because when he reels me back in his hold on me is stronger, more assured; his gaze more intense; his hands, well . . . handsier. He moves with such an easy grace and innate rhythm that I can’t help but wonder how his skill would translate to the bedroom.
I immediately banish the thought.
“You’re pretty good,” I tell him, trying to distract myself from my illicit thoughts. It only half works. “Did your mom teach you how to dance, too?” There you go, talk about moms.
He does some complicated spin move that tangles our arms up like a pretzel. “Not quite, but she’d be pleased to know all those years of cotillion didn’t go to waste.”
I glance over at our competition, and if I’ve felt self-conscious about “showing them up,” I shouldn’t have—they’re lost in their own world, with eyes only for each other. For a moment, my mind flashes to Gran and how tickled she’d be to see me doing something so spontaneous and carefree. She always says she sees herself in me, but the truth is, she’s bolder and braver than I’ve ever been. I’m a rule follower, a type A stickler who rarely colors outside the lines, while she’s always done whatever strikes her fancy—and she’s never cared who’s watching.
I have to pause that train of thought, though, to address a more pressing concern: this pencil skirt, which is so fitted that it’s actually restricting my range of motion. Not a huge deal when I was sitting at a table, able to disguise the slight wiggle-walk it forced me to adopt; a much larger issue, however, while trying to be the Ginger Rogers to Jack’s Fred Astaire. I’m forced to cling to him like a second skin or risk toppling like a tipsy penguin. For someone playing the purity card, it’s a mixed message I do not want to be sending.