He shrugs, a hint of color touching his cheeks. “Honey and I took classes when we were in middle school. Our mothers wanted us to salsa at our wedding.” He shakes his head, letting out a low huff of annoyance.
“I—” Words fail me. The idea of dancing with Jamie with his hand on my waist, moving together— “I can't. There's Ella, and—”
“I get it. I could always babysit instead,” he offers quickly. “You know, if you'd rather go with someone else… maybe Reese would take you. I haven’t seen much of his dancing skills, but he was pretty good out there on the field today.”
“Reese?” The mention of him catches me off guard.
“Yeah, you know, the guy who looks at you like no one else exists,” Jamie says, his tone suddenly tight. “He seems nice. Into you. Probably more respectable than to be seen with me.”
“Jamie—”
“I mean, I'd understand,” he continues, not quite meeting my eyes. “If you'd rather go with him. He's probably better company. Doesn't come with all my—complications.”
I stare at him, trying to process what's happening. Is he jealous? Of Reese?
“I don't want to go with Reese,” I say softly.
His eyes snap to mine. “No?”
I shake my head. “No. I’m not going to those classes.”
“Right. You don’t want to do them.”
I nod, then force a small smile, needing to steer us away from Reese before this turns into something it’s not. I like Reese. Who wouldn’t? He’s beautiful and kind, and sweet, but now that Jamie’s here… it’s not something I feel like I can or should consider. This moment is too important for Ella.
“But I do want to thank you for helping me with my work. I would’ve given up tonight if you hadn’t been here.”
“You’re welcome.”
His smile is small, almost sad, and that’s when I notice his hands. They’re shaking, just a little, but just enough to want to make it better.
I shunt my chair closer and place my hands over his. The shaking slows a little.
“Jamie,” I whisper.
His eyes lift to meet mine, then flick away.
“I’m sorry. I keep fucking this all up. I shouldn’t have—” he starts, shaking his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things weird.”
“You didn’t,” I say quietly, letting my thumb stroke the back of his palm. Oddly, I can feel Jamie’s reluctance.
Has anyone ever comforted him before?
His gaze comes back to mine.
“It’s just…” he exhales, closing his eyes. “When I look at you, I forget how to do this right, or what I’m supposed to say.”
My breath catches.
“I don’t want to overstep,” he adds, softer now. “I just—” he trails off. “I just can’t help it when it comes to you.”
The air between us is thick and heavy.
His eyes drop to my lips, then back up, searching. Asking permission without words.
I should stop this. I should stand up, make an excuse about being tired, about needing to check on Ella. I should do a thousand things that aren't leaning closer, close enough to feel the warmth radiating off him.
But I don't.