Missed Me, Missed Me, Now You Gotta Kiss Me

On the Set of Along Came Polly

 I stared at the crowd of people so tightly knit together. I was standing well off the dance floor, on the second story balcony, overlooking the dancers. But even then I felt like I was going to be sick. I pretty much suffered from extreme claustrophobia—if I let myself think about it, even thinking that I was trapped in a big ball—aka, Earth—I got freaked. Betchya didn’t know that about me, huh?

  I stared at Kyle, mouth open with a loss of words.

  He just smirked, misunderstanding my speechlessness. “It’s insane, right?”

  I stared back at the dance floor at all the dirty dancers. “Definitely,” I muttered. ‘Insane’ was exactly what I was thinking.

  “Oh, so once wasn’t enough for you?” Lulu had teased me a few hours earlier.

  I had just gotten done explaining—okay, sorry, complaining—once again of my ordeal—aka, my date with Kyle. I looked up from the pillow I had shoved my face in. “The hard part’s over.”

  “Not really,” she had pointed out. “Liam’s still gotta find out you’ve gotta new hubby.”

  My shoulders had sagged in defeat. “Shit. You’re right.”

  “So,” Lulu had said chipperly, crossing her legs Indian style. “Where’s my dashing and irresistible big brother taking you tonight?”

  Once again, my face had been planted into the pillow as I mumbled my answer.

  “Didn’t hear you, Piper.”

  I had lifted my head just enough to groan clearly, “Salsa dancing.”

  And even though we had laughed and joked about it to a point where I thought I could go in the building bitch style and act like I owned the place, I was having second thoughts whilst actually standing there. Everyone, for starters, looked exceptionally well. I was wearing a jean mini skirt, black leggings, and two tank tops—one black, one gray. And while I knew I could never dance in them, I felt as if I should be wearing killer heels instead of black jazz shoes.

  “So, you gonna dance with me or what?” Kyle asked with an arrogant smirk.

  I stared at him, brow raised skeptically. I had seen all those touchy feely dancers down there. I did not want Kyle to be touching me like that. He’d find out just how much I was not interested in dating him.

  But I found myself shrugging and saying, “Might as well.”

  I walked halfway around the second floor—where the tables and bar were at—until we found the devil stairs leading to the sex floor. I bought of nerves nearly choked me up and I really contemplated fleeing to the bathroom and calling Lulu to psych me out. Instead, I found my inner bitch—I missed you, girl!—and let Kyle lead me on the dance floor.

  The band playing wasn’t even halfway Spanish, and yet they were playing fast and slow Spanish songs—which I really liked. Unfortunately, I felt more like Ben Stiller rather than Jennifer Aniston in Along Came Polly—and maybe that was good, cause I’d never liked Jennifer Aniston.

  There was no chitter chatter, no “getting to know you” or easing into it. One minute Kyle had my hand and the next he had my waist pressed very tightly to him. He even had the nerve to wiggle his brows with that dumb, flashy smirk at my startled look.

  I frowned, not agreeing with the direction his hands were heading and yet I didn’t speak out against it. I just had to act like I wasn’t a startled little virgin—although that was a difficult assumption, being as though I couldn’t let him think I was easy, or else he’d think he was getting some; which he most certainly was not. There was no way I’d go that far.