2.0 The Chronicles of Us - Shame & Blame

Chapter forty

•★ Tex ★•

I follow Ellie's gaze to the dance floor. Without a damn doubt, she wants to dance as well. She probably read those historical romance stories where comely damsels get to dance with dukes and earls. Did she imagine herself being swept off her feet by some prince? Probably. That's what little girls do. And now she's stuck with me. A guy who has no prince-like features. No chance she'll ever dance like that as long as she's with me.

My eyes drop to my feet. I suppose I could turn her childhood fantasy into reality. I mean, I know those moves. They're doing a basic box-step. It's not like they're doing the fucking tango or some shit. Yeah, if I do this, Ellie will show me a huge smile and as it happens to be, I'm a sucker for her smiles.

Resolute, I get up and fold one arm behind my back. My free hand hovers palm-up in the air in front of Ellie's face. "Does the lady care for a dance?"

Surprised, Ellie looks up. With a sweet smile, she takes my hand and gives it a little squeeze. "No, thanks. I'm fine sitting here."

Pardon my French, but what the actual fuck?

I straighten my spine and snap my hand back. "You seriously don't wanna dance with me?"

Her eyes grow wide. "No! I mean, of course I do. I just don't want you to be uncomfortable. We both know you don't really want to dance."

"The only thing making me feel uncomfortable is your rejection." It's a white lie. The prospect of busting a so-called move makes me utterly uneasy, but that's a me-problem. "Will you please take my goddamn hand and let me dance with you?"

After doing a curtsy, she places her hand in mine. "It would be my pleasure."

To complete the fantasy, I place her hand on my angled elbow and guide her to the dance space. Even though it looks as if she roughhoused with a leafy bush, she looks stunning. I noticed that the green dress that clothes her shapely figure is much simpler than some of the creations the other women are wearing. Silky fabric covers her from tit to toe, tightening around her curves when she moves. Since it's a strapless number with a bare back, I wonder how it all stays in place. Double-sided tape? Anyway, the simplicity of her appearance only brings out her natural beauty. Sure, my opinion is thoroughly obscured by love, but I know it's the truth. The turned heads are proof enough.

My eyes move from her softly bouncing tits to her face. It's the finest face I've ever seen—delicate bone structure, freckled nose, and big, bright eyes with ebony lashes—but the crease on her forehead seems misplaced. Is she not excited?

I halt us and ask, "Something wrong?"

She worries her bottom lip with her teeth as if she's unsure or perhaps ashamed. "Do you know how to dance?"

Ah, of course, she's afraid I'll embarrass her. Well, to be honest, I might. It's been over a decade. Not gonna let that stop us, though. "Don't worry. I had mandatory lessons in high school. I won't make a fool of you."

Hopefully.

Her frown deepens. "Please, don't say things like that. I'm not worried about you. I'm worried about me. I've never danced like that. I don't know how to."

This surprises me. Surely there have been some occasions throughout her life. "Really? Didn't you dance at prom or something?"

"Have you seen Footloose?"

Am I willing to admit that I have? "Maybe?"

She sighs ruefully. "Well, my high school was like that. We had to keep 10 inches between us at all times. You know, because the Lord was attending the dance too."