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I should follow his lead and turn away, mind my own business and finish the gala on a high note. This is a conversation best done in private, but instead, I tap his shoulder and interrupt him midsentence.
“I’m sorry, but did I do something wrong?”
My tone isn’t so gentle now that he’s pissed me off.
His gaze spits fire when he replies, “Not a thing.”
The woman at his side wraps a possessive hand around his forearm, and I’ve had enough. I’m about to walk away, but then Ellie pushes me toward him.
“Brooke was actually just telling me she’d love to dance, and I’m sure you two have so much to catch up on.”
Dance?!
No.
While there is a dance floor, it’s currently occupied by only three couples, and each person is upwards of 80. They’re just sort of shuffling around while they lean on each other. James and I would stick out like sore thumbs.
He smiles tightly and extends his arm to encompass the room. “I’m sure there are plenty of men who would be more than willing to oblige.”
My cheeks flush with embarrassment. Not only did he turn me down, he did it in front of the weathergirl, and when she snickers and tries to hide it behind her hand, I’ve had enough for one night. Martha will have to understand. I’m leaving early.
I turn on my heel, prepared to beeline for the exit, but Ellie’s hand digs into my back and she pushes me toward him.
“Plenty of men, sure, but you’re the closest!”
Cupid had enough tact to use arrows in his matchmaking. Ellie, on the other hand, seems to have chosen a hatchet.
I’m not sure if I’m angrier with her for throwing me at James or with James for standing there, actually contemplating turning me down a second time. I narrow my eyes, daring him to do it. He meets my gaze head on, and a muscle in his jaw twitches as he tries to grind his teeth to dust. It feels like I’m winning even though his searing gaze is hot enough to burn through flesh.
Finally, with a heavy sigh, he grabs my hand and turns to lead me toward the dance floor, or at the very least, away from Ellie. For all I know, he could be on his way to depositing my body outside in the dumpster. I’m sure that’s what he’d like to do, though I have no clue why. When we last spoke in Austin, we left things on good terms. Our breakup was mutual and healthy—adult, even. Now he’s suddenly acting like some scorned lover. He’s holding my hand in a punishing grip I don’t particularly enjoy, so I tug hard to extract it, right in time to nearly trip into an ambitious waiter holding a massive tray of hors d’oeuvres. James’ hand settles around my waist as he gently pulls me against him, saving me and the poor server in the nick of time. I stiffen at the familiar warmth that radiates from his touch. He squeezes my waist and then quickly releases me, taking a step away as if he’s trying to put a healthy distance between us. I glance down at the offending hand in time to see him clench it into a tight fist.
“The dance floor is that way,” he says with a cold, distant tone.
I whip my gaze to his face and for one wild moment, I contemplate leaving him right then and there. I spy an exit a few yards away; I could be outside in a minute, two tops. He sees where I’m looking and shakes his head with a quiet reprimand. “Don’t.”
I lift my chin and walk purposefully toward the dance floor, stopping at the very edge. James’ hand hits the small of my back and he continues forward, sweeping me into his arms. One of my hands rests delicately on his shoulder while he grips the other one tightly. His touch is exciting, and strangely familiar after so much time. The band is playing Nat King Cole’s “L-O-V-E” and the upbeat jazz song is no trouble for James, who’s clearly spent time learning how to lead a woman around a dance floor. He’s not making it easy for me though. I’m sure he’d love for me to stumble in front of everyone—and I do mean everyone—but too bad for him, Martha enrolled Ellie and me in a few months of ballroom dance lessons when we were teenagers. I hated every second of it, but now I can foxtrot with the best of them—that is, until James picks up the pace, spinning me out and back in with a hard tug. I collide with his chest and manage to step on his foot. He smirks and I resolve to stomp harder next time.
There’s no time to try to plan ahead for another opportunity to maim him. With James at the helm, towering over me in his midnight black tuxedo, we breeze across the dance floor so quickly that all my focus goes to trying to keep up with his long strides. The song hits a crescendo, and the trumpet player takes a solo. James uses the opportunity to toss me out and roll my body back into him before he dips me sharply toward the ground. I squeeze my eyes closed, bracing for impact, but then he pulls me back up and swings us back into the rhythm of the song with confident ease. There are whistles and claps from the crowd of onlookers. Thanks to James’ moves, I doubt there’s a guest in attendance who isn’t watching us. I hope Ellie is happy. In fact, I know she is.
