Beth glances at her drink, her cheeks going hot from the crowded room and Monty brushing a wavy tendril of hair back from her face. He's being...probably exactly as flirty as he always is, because she's pretty sure Monty can't breathe without flirting with somebody, let alone try and puzzle through his English homework or go to a house party. (The fact that she's apparently better at lit than a guy who went to one of the fanciest high schools on the planet is crazy, by the way, but it's also extra cash, so she'll take it.) Downing a wine cooler in a couple gulps seems like a bad idea, but it's not like she's that drunk. She can probably do it and be fine for later.

And then they can dance. She guesses. God, that's so weird. He's being himself, and she's actually being affected by it, like the part of her brain that knows Monty's full of crap is the part that's drunk.

So Beth shrugs and chugs it, hoping it looks like she knows exactly what she's doing with a bottle of Bartles and Jaymes in the first place. Setting it aside, she glances over at Monty--over, not up--and reaches for his hand. If he's going to be that touchy-feely, then she gets to be, too. "You know how to dance?"