troublewillfindme

Dance lessons and their aftermath.

“And there’s a formal dinner and dance to follow,” he says, scrolling through the message on his phone.

“Dance?” Regan gapes at him from across the table. “You mean, like actual dance?”

Bradford looks up. “I would assume so.”

“Do they expect us to participate?”

He can feel the smile pulling at his lips. “I … probably. Yeah. What is that face you’re making?”

“Abject horror,” she nods. “Mortal terror. All-consuming dread.”

“Elizabeth, it’s a diplomatic event, not a war game.”

“Is the war game an option? Because I think I’d stand a better chance.”

“Haven’t you been through one of these before? The whole growing up diplomat?”

She shakes her head. “I was a pro at wriggling out of formal events. Stomach bugs, headaches, tests: I used’em all. I was just expected to make an appearance at Consulate dinners. Those were more small talk, less dancing.”

“So…?”

“So, I can’t dance.”

“It’s not like it’s a club, Regan.”

“That’s exactly the problem. It doesn’t matter if you look like an idiot there; half the room’s drunk anyway.”

“I’ve got great news for you about formal dances.”

“Yeah, but I’m there representing something. Not just making an ass of myself.”

“It’ll be fine.”

“It will not. You have not seen … this,” she finishes, gesturing to herself.

“You really can’t, can you?” He asks, his smile softening.

“Not for all the tea in China.”

“Come on, “ he says, standing and offering her a hand. “It’s not hard.”

“I’m gonna end up stepping on your feet,” she insists, placing her palm into his outstretched fingers and standing.

“Neither of us have shoes on. It’ll be fine.”

“I’m not light.”

“Elizabeth, I could pick you up with one arm.”

“You’re a Naval officer. That’s part of the job requirement.”

“Ah, yes, the ‘bodily pick up and carry your partner’ bit. How could I forget?”

“You know what I mean.”

The house is old, dating back to the 1800s, lovingly restored over more hours than he should really admit to. He’d bought it knowing it needed work, but the three floors of space more than made up for the effort it had demanded.

At the moment, he’s especially grateful for the walk up attic, and its hardwood floors.

“How do you have this much space?” She gasps, looking around.

“It was a fix’er upper when I bought it.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Wouldn’t know it to look now.”

“It was a process,” he grins. “Come on, you’re not getting out of this.”

She groans, but rolls her shoulders back and steps into his arms. He settles one hand onto her back and takes her free hand in his. “Weight on this foot,” he says, squeezing her hand. “Keep your arms steady. Elbow shouldn’t go behind you.”

“This isn’t going to go well.”

“You’re doing fine.”

“We haven’t moved yet.”

“Do me a favor: close your eyes.”

“Is this part of it?”

“When you’re learning, it’s easier to feel it than think about it.”

“Don’t walk me into a wall?”

“Oh, ye of little faith.” He squeezes her hand gently. “It’s just weight shifts, Lizzie.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I’ve seen you run in heels, Regan.”

“Just part of the job description.”

–

It’s late, and the night has gone on too long.

She is warm in his arms, her head on his chest, and their form gone to hell. Her breathing is steady and even, and if it weren’t for the way she effortlessly follows him, he’d be convinced she’d found it in her to sleep standing up.

It has been a hard night. There was, again, an incident. Why they insist on mixing alcohol and dancing, he’ll never understand. He spares a moment to be thankful that Lizzie had the composure not to offer him a repeat of the Italy incident, shoe wedged into flesh, and had settled for merely treading on the man’s foot in response.

She hasn’t left his side since.

He knows what this looks like.

He doesn’t care.

A trumpet sounds the first few notes of Gershwin’s “Summertime” and she nestles herself closer into him as they sway back and forth.

He could get used to this.