“They fit now,” he says, voice low.
“Yes.” I swallow. “They fit now.”
“Little bird,” he whispers, voice thick with understanding and guilt. “I gave you such shit about those heels.”
I shrug. “You didn’t know. It’s fine, Nate.”
He exhales sharply. “You were fourteen.”
“What?”
“When they finally fit.” His eyes hold mine. “You were fourteen. I remember, because I came home from that first semester at college and you’d morphed into this little vixen overnight.”
“The Sadie Hawkins dance,” I say, laughing lightly. “That was the first night I ever wore a pair of my mother’s heels. I remember worrying I’d have killer blisters, dancing in them all night. It didn’t stop me from wearing them.”
“Did you?” he asks.
“Did I what?”
He grins. “Have killer blisters.”
“Oh.” I sigh. “No. My date didn’t dance with me, remember?”
His face darkens into a scowl. “Duncan.”
“You know, if you’d just said yes when I asked you, all that drama could’ve been avoided.” I tilt my head. “You were the one I really wanted to dance with, anyway.”
He stares at me. “I was no good for you then, little bird.”
I hold my breath. I have to ask. “And now?”
Our eyes lock for a long, suspended moment. Without saying a word, his hands wrap around my waist and he lifts me down from the counter.
“Nate?”
He doesn’t answer. His hand entwines with mine and he leads me through an archway, across an empty bedroom, to a set of glass French doors. I lose my breath as we step out onto a rooftop terrace, taking in the sight of the city sprawled out below us. From up here, all the empty offices in the skyscrapers around us are illuminated against the night like glowing gemstones on a bolt of black velvet. It’s magnificent.
“What are we doing out here?” I ask when we reach the railing, torn between staring at the beauty of the view and the man next to me. It’s dark out here. Crisp air and total quiet.
Nate bends to brush his mouth across mine, wrapping his arms around my waist. His lips are gentle but greedy. I try to memorize this feeling – the pure bliss of his touch, his taste. When he finally breaks the kiss, it takes a minute for the fog to clear out of my brain… but when it does, I realize we’re swaying.
Not swaying.
Dancing.
His body rocks mine back and forth, moving us in a slow rhythm across the terrace, and I feel tears gathering in the back of my eyes.
“What are you doing?” I ask, voice choked.
“I owed you a dance,” he says simply, like it should’ve been obvious.
“There’s no music.”
His lips brush my ear. “Put your head on my chest.”
I do.
“You hear my heartbeat?”