The Dance (68 page)

“How?”

Shaking his head slightly, Hart said, “Something in my soul told me you needed me.”

My footsteps sped up. In one continuous motion I landed in Hart’s lap and my arms securely wrapped around him. With my face buried deep in the crook of his neck, I held on tight as we rolled out the door and into our
forever.

According to the U.S. Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (Last updated March 2016)

More than
1.2 million
people in the United States are living with HIV infection.

It is estimated that almost
1 in 8
(12.8 percent) don’t know they are infected.

From 1981 to 2013, an estimated
1,194,039 people in the United States had been diagnosed with AIDS. Of those, 658,507 have died.

An estimated
50,000
new HIV infections occur in the U.S. each year.

At the end of 2011,
23 percent
of all people living with HIV in the United States were women.

The vast majority of newly diagnosed HIV-positive women contracted the virus through heterosexual sex.

Women account for
1 in 5
new HIV diagn
oses
and deaths caused by AIDS.

Twenty-five percent
of them are between the ages of
13 and 24
.

That means at least one teenager or young adult in this country is infected with HIV every hour of every day.

I stood in front of the giant wall of glass. The fake sunlight shimmered down through the water, bouncing off the yellow, green, and pink coral. The blue glow of the tank gave the dimly lit room a romantic dreamy feel.

“Bryson!”

I turned around to a power-walking Tommy headed straight toward me with arms a-flailin’.

“Oh my god! The entire line has come to a grinding halt because of that old lady.

“Miss Polly?”

“She won’t leave the mini fried chicken and waffles station.”

Placing my hands on his shoulders, I said, “Tommy, calm down. Simple solution.”

“You want me to kick her to the curb?”

My face scrunched at his suggestion. “She’s eighty years old.”

“I think I can take her.”

“Go in the kitchen and grab a platter. Pile it high with chicken and take it to Miss Polly’s table.”

“I would have thought of that eventually. Please don’t consider my momentary lapse in judgment as a reflection on my ability to be in charge of this event.”

“You’re doing a great job. The place looks fantastic and the food is mouthwatering.”

“Thanks, boss.” He spun around and power-walked away.

It’s been three years since Will died and so much has changed. Not a day goes by that I don’t think of him and thank him for what he did for me in the end. His will was so airtight his parents never bothered to contest it.

I graduated from The Art Institute of Charleston with a degree in culinary arts. With the experience I gained working for Good Eats I was able to earn my degree in half the time it usually takes. Last year Nancy wanted to step back a little from the catering business to enjoy her grandchildren. She offered me a partnership in the company. Not only was I following my dream, I’d also been able to use my MBA degree after all.

As my gaze scanned the room a smile crossed my face. Everyone I loved was gathered together to share this incredible moment.

“Hey, let’s dance.”

My gaze shifted to a pair of twinkling blue-gray eyes.

I chuckled. “Who do you think you are ordering me to dance with you?”

Grinning oh so sexily, Hart extended his hand. “Your husband, Mrs. Mitchell.”

I slipped my hand in his and melted into his lap. With my palms flat against his toned tuxedo clad chest, they traveled up over his shoulders to the base of his neck. Hart rolled us onto the dance floor as the smooth voice of Tony Bennett singing “The Way You Look Tonight” flowed from the speakers.

“Have I told you how hot you are in your classic black tux, Mr. Mitchell?”

Hart leaned forward, placing his lips against mine and whispered, “Have you seen my lovely wife? She’s uber hot. I had to up my game.”

My dress was pretty awesome. The floor-length champagne chiffon skimmed over my skin and wrapped around my body, gathering at my hip with elegant crystal beading. Hart was a big fan of the backless aspect of the halter top.

Hart asked me to marry him a year ago. Well, I should say Hart and Butter asked. Somehow he convinced me that camping would be fun. One weekend last fall we packed everything and went to the mountains of North Carolina. The first night while we snuggled up by the fire Hart called Butter over. The ring was dangling from a red ribbon tied around Butter’s neck. It was perfect.

We kept the ceremony small, inviting just close friends and family. As for the reception, there was never any question it would be held here at the aquarium. Ballroom B was smaller and more intimate than the one the prom was held in. The tables were scattered on one side of the room, dressed in white linen with deep red rose centerpieces. The food, catered by Good Eats, thank you very much, was set up in the far left corner. In the far right corner was an easel with a white spotlight shining down on the painting Hope Mitchell created after hearing the prom story. It was a nice way to honor Hart’s mother and feel her presence. And the tank wall made for a gorgeous backdrop for the dance floor.

I pressed my cheek to his scruffy one and laughed. Glancing up, I caught Mom and Dad at one of the tables. Dad was holding an endless supply of tissues while Mom ruined her makeup.

Closing my eyes, I got lost in the song, the sway, and the sensation of Hart.

One Mississippi.

Two Mississippi.

Three Mississippi.

“Bryson!” The loud shrill whisper of Sophie cut through the air.

Hart and I looked up just in time to see Sophie circling us with Doug hot on her heels.

Rotation one.
“Get away from me. I’m not going to tell you again.”

“Good. I’m sick of hearing it. Stop fighting it. Give in to the urge.”

Rotation two.
“The only urge I have is to punch you in the neck.”

“How’d you know I liked it a little rough?”

Suddenly, she stopped, turned on her heels, and got right up in Doug’s face. “I swear if you don’t stop it, I’m gonna have to . . . to . . .”

“Have to do what?”

“Fuck you.”

“Man, I hope the rest of you is as filthy as your mouth.”

Sophie’s shoulders slumped as she rolled her eyes. “Oh gawd. Come on. I gotta get drunker than I am now. Like a lot, a lot more.”

On her way to drinking herself into the hooking-up-at-a-wedding cliché, Sophie passed Ronnie and Julia slow dancing and shaking their heads in unison.

Standing off to the side, Colin held a glass of champagne and joked. “She’s gonna have to suck down the entire bar to stomach you.”

“She can suck anything she wants as long as I’m one of the suckees.” Doug said over his shoulder as he weaved his way through the tables in search of Sophie.

Hart and I looked at each other, exchanging brow-lifting expressions. Our cheeks reconnected. His right hand landed on the bare skin at the small of my back while his left hand worked the wheel as we danced to our song at our wedding.

When I was younger I thought I had a clear vision of what the perfect guy would look like. But the perfect man isn’t the one with dark hair or blond hair. He doesn’t have a specific eye color. He’s not tall or short with washboard abs and bulging biceps.

The perfect man is the one who gives you strength, encouragement, and love. He builds you up and holds you up. He protects you while giving you room to grow as a person. He desires you and lets you know just how special and lovely you are. He appreciates your intellect and opinions. He supports your dreams. And he’s the one you can cry in front of and laugh out loud with.

“I love Yodel you, Bryson.” His rasp had every inch of my body, heart, and soul tingling.

I tightened my hold. “I Yodel you, Hart.”

And in the end we lived happily ever after.

Thank you for taking the time to read my book. I’d really appreciate it if you could take a few minutes to leave an honest review on Amazon.

One of my top goals in writing is to portray characters and situations in a relatable and realistic manner. I do extensive research on every aspect of the story down to the tiniest of details. While the sequence of Will’s illness is realistic I took creative license in the timeframe the disease took over.

Since the first day I told my family I’d written a book they have encouraged me every step of the way. During the writing of The Dance I went through a couple of health related issues. If it weren’t for the love and support of my family you wouldn’t be reading this book. No words will ever express adequately how grateful and blessed I am to have them in my life.

My incredible beta team, Beth Hyams, Concepcion Capon, Jennifer Mirabelli, Kim Bias, Tabitha Willbanks, and Tammy Zautner. You ladies are the cream of the crop. Thank you for your generosity of time and all the honest feedback you give me. I don’t know what I’d do without you.

Linda Roberts (editor), hard to believe this is our 4th book together. Thank you for making me and my words look even better than I do.