Graeme holds completely still, only his lips moving in time with the lyrics. Then as the backup vocals join, he lifts his chin to meet my eyes. His heel bounces in time to the rhythm. The instruments surge. His eyes gleam. And his movements swell with the music.

Whereas Nikolai was all shimmying shoulders and gyrating hips, Graeme’s dancing is understated, subtle.

And sexy as fuck.

Heat rises through my body like steam escaping a vent.

A stained glass window doesn’t need fancy curtains. And a perfect male specimen like Graeme doesn’t need look-at-me dance moves to ooze sensuality. A swirl of his hips does the trick.

Graeme rocks rhythmically back and forth and thumbs his chest during the refrain. When he rolls his hips in time to the music, my mouth goes dry and a shiver zings down my spine. He channels the enthusiasm of Tom Cruise and the carnality of Patrick Swayze. He’s Jake Ryan, Patrick Verona, and Clark Kent rolled into one. An Adonis mouthing the soprano words to the iconic 1970s disco pop musical group.

And through it all, his eyes never leave my face.

Walsh clutches my forearm in a holy shit grip.

Guests murmur to one another, shooting me covert glances.

I don’t care.

Because my inner thirteen-year-old is squealing so hard right now I could rip a pillow. He’s putting himself out there, sacrificing his pride—for me. I barely notice when Walsh lifts the tilting wineglass from my slack grip and places it on the table.

The second verse arrives, and Graeme falters. His smile wavers as he seems to register the bevy of enraptured guests for the first time. A flush spreads across his cheekbones.

I stand.

My mouth automatically forms the lyrics I know by heart. I extend an arm toward him…

His chest rises and falls for a breath before he smiles, eyes shining. He takes my hand and pulls me onto the dais and straight into a twirl.

And then we’re alone. The lights go black except for the spotlight above us. The crowd fades away. There’s only the sway of the ship, the swell of the music, and the energy rising between us.

Take a chance on me.

We begin to move, only our palms touching. We’re in perfect sync, mirror images of one another. I let the music fill me and I channel every ounce of giddy joy filling my lungs.

He slides me in front of him, my back to his front, allowing me to take the lead. I cartwheel my arms from hip to hip, fluttering my fingers in a thoroughly cheesy move. Graeme mirrors a beat behind me. I dip and shimmy side to side and mouth the lyrics, peering at him over my shoulder as he sways opposite me.

Strong fingers grasp my hip and Graeme spins me to face him. We move together in time to the music.