As though choreographed, he stopped. I floundered in my tracks, nettled that I’d allowed him to take the lead in the first place. “By the way, that—” he circled his index finger between us, “—was a dance.”
“It does not count. I was not concentrating.”
“Precisely. That’s the reason it worked.” He tilted his head, layers of dark, disheveled hair slanting with the action.