“I’m sure many women find him handsome,” she said instead of her earlier agreement. She sure wasn’t going to stroke his ego, even for his grandmother’s sake.

The song changed to a mid-tempo waltz, and Iris grinned. “Oh, this is the perfect song. Gabe, be a gentleman and ask this beautiful young woman to dance.”

Gabe looked as shocked as Angi felt at the suggestion.

“I can’t. I really don’t know how to dance.”

“The man leads. Gabe will take care of you.”

Didn’t those words just send an unwelcome thrill skittering along her spine?

Gabe looked like he’d rather stick his hand into a nest of pit vipers than offer it to her, but he dutifully held it out, palm up. “May I have this dance?” he asked like some broody Austen heroine. Mr. Darcy the florist, as her friends had dubbed him months earlier.

Heat rose to Angi’s cheeks. She tried to ignore her body’s reaction to him and her heart’s stammering pitter-patter inside her chest. “I don’t dance,” she mumbled, like that would make a difference.

Since when did what she wanted to do change what she did?

“You might surprise yourself,” Iris said, undeterred by the weak protest.

So Angi placed her hand into Gabe’s, acutely aware of the warmth of his skin and the scrapes on his fingers and his calloused palm. She’d always appreciated a man who had work-roughened hands, although the same didn’t apply to her own.

She had the classic beat-up hands of kitchen workers everywhere. Red from being washed so often and her nails in sore need of tending. She could give herself a manicure at the same time she gave one to Iris, she supposed.

The myriad of thoughts she tried to distract herself with disappeared as Gabe led her to the edge of the circle of dancers.

“A youthful couple,” Josie exclaimed, clasping her hands together in front of her generous bosom. “How lovely.”

Bianca beamed. “My daughter is as lovely as they come.”

“Breathe,” Gabe advised as he pulled Angi closer.

“I’m breathing,” she ground out, then realized she was holding her breath.

“There’s no pressure.” He lifted her hand to his shoulder and placed his on her waist. “We’re guaranteed to look good in comparison. You could face-plant a dozen times, and the fact that you could get back up would make you the envy of everyone in the place.”

“I don’t want to dance,” she told him as she glanced up into his dark eyes. She hadn’t been so close to a man, held for any length of time, for far longer than she cared to admit. She blamed her heightened awareness on that fact and tried to ignore her body’s response to Gabe in particular. This close, the flecks of green in his hazel eyes were obvious, and the fine lines fanning out from the corners of his eyes made her want to trace a finger over them.

Had he gotten those because he’d been deployed to deserts with harsh sun and cruel wind? Or had there been a time when he’d laughed freely—maybe with a woman—and that past joy was now constantly reflected on his face?