Michelle McCraw Reader Extras
Cover of Forget Me by Michelle McCraw, a man in a black T-shirt with muscular forearms

Forget Me teaser #2

He picked up his phone and soon, music with a seductive, syncopated beat played from hidden speakers. He reached for my hand and pulled me into the open center of the room.

“You remember how I suck at this, right?” The shame of his remedial lessons at the club flooded into my cheeks. Natalie hadn’t needed one-on-one coaching.

He held my hands the way he had the other night. “Remember the steps. Side to side. Easy. Start with your left foot.”

It was a little easier with only Roger for an audience. I stepped to the left and mirrored his steps. Left, right, left, tap. Right, left, right, tap. After a minute, I let the music infuse my hips in a stiff imitation of the way the women moved at the club.

“You’ve got it. Now, a turn.”

“A turn?”

“Keep moving your feet. Now. When I lift your hand, you twirl left.”


“You can do it, querida.” He raised my right hand, released his grip on my fingers, and then pressed his palm to mine. “Turn.”

I turned to face the front door.

“¡Ay, ay! Turn back.”

“Sorry!” My face burned as I spun to face him.

“Don’t apologize. You’re learning. You’re doing great.”

“I’m going to look like an idiot at the gala. Larissa is going to—”

“Don’t worry about Larissa. Watch me. I’ll signal you. I promise I won’t lead you wrong.”

I trusted him. He’d taken care of my brother. He’d taken care of me at the bar. And he’d gone along with the whole farce of fake dating, just to help me. So I lifted my gaze from our feet, from our hands, and watched his face. His strong, square jaw and those beautiful eyes that were more like a sun-warmed pool than the stormy gray ocean.

“Now,” he said. He lifted our hands and flattened them against each other. I turned away in two steps and back in the next two. His arm went around my back, and suddenly we were dancing close. “Perfect.”

And it was. My hips swayed, and when I looked up at him, his breath ghosted on my cheek. His feet stilled, and he leaned closer.

“What does that signal mean? What should I do?”

His hands dropped to my waist. “Kiss me.”

He bent, and his lips landed on mine. It wasn’t a fierce kiss like in the car. It was as languid and sensual as the music playing. I smoothed my hands up his chest to his shoulders to pull him closer. Although our feet didn’t move, it was part of the dance. Our lips, our tongues continued where our bodies had left off. I pressed myself against him, carrying forward the seduction of the dance.

Suddenly, I envied that flexible woman on the stage at the club who could lift her leg and twine it around her partner’s thigh. I could have soothed the ache at my core. But I had a better than fifty percent chance of toppling over and taking him to the floor with me, so I poured all my need into our kiss.

He pulled away too soon.

“More dance lessons?” I stuck out my puffy lower lip.

“No.” He jerked his head toward the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

© Michelle McCraw, 2022

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