I want to make a joke, or explode and put him on blast in front of the whole party, but I figure I should save both of us the embarrassment, especially with a newfound truce. Something tells me the label wouldn’t like it if I made an appearance onsocial media berating their star couple. “He won’t see me.” I finally answer.He won’t see me because he’ll be blacked out, drunk in t-minus 30 minutes.“Besides, I’m meeting someone anyway,” I add.
Mae’s eyes rise in question but the party lights have dimmed slightly and the DJ has switched the tunes from 20s jazz to some dance remix. Is historical accuracy sacred to no one but me?
Mae’s still standing in front of me, her soft eyes inquiring. Still so young. “Oh,” I begin, motioning toward her outfit. “Clara Bow?” I think it was the sad eyes that gave it away.
A grin replaces her uncertainty. “Ugh, no fun. You guessed it way too quickly.”
In the middle of our healing moment, two women approach and tap Mae on the shoulder. She turns to address them, and I glide away into the crowd. Typically, Mae and I use every chance we can to work together to make connections and network with otherwise hard to contact individuals. It seems as though that is far from Mae’s mind tonight, and that’s fine, she’s allowed to have fun. I’ll just have to make a go at it myself.
Turning toward the outskirts of the room, I search for any familiar faces. I’m looking for any of my friends in marketing or public relations, but the only person I recognize is a man dressed in a tux and bowtie. A pure Jay Gatsby, Leonardo Dicaprio look-alike.
Dalton smiles when he sees me, and I reluctantly slink toward him. The guilt comes back in a wave, but I do my best to tamp it down as I get closer. I know what I really asked him here for, and it looks like I got it.
***
I didn’t know I was capable of having fun at parties anymore. Between keeping tabs on Mae and always trying to climb the social ladder, there was never any room for that. So, how come Dalton’s presence has completely eliminated the fears of both of those tasks?
He’s on top of security; he and another man from his team, along with Mitch and Trenton’s team, have it on lock. Despite his preoccupation, I’ve caught his eyes lingering on me more than once in the past hour. I’ve worked my way around the party, ran into a few friends, and have successfully avoided the main couple.
The conversations have been easy tonight, and I realize that any stressful situations in the past may have been from my own overbearing nature. And I don’t know, maybe Dalton’s presence has made being conversational a little easier for me. I know he’s not going to act out or ditch me like Mae sometimes would. With Dalton only a few feet away, I know I can do my job while not having to worry about anything extra.
As a studio manager who I was speaking to about an upcoming side project makes his excuses, I take a breath. I’m hoping for just a bit of reprieve as he picks up his phone and steps away. I get no such peace. A head full of curly hair bounces into my vision.
Genelle Cienski is here, and she’s coming right for me.
Turning swiftly to Dalton, I grab him by the hand and pull him through the thickest part of the crowd I can find. As the group of people crashes back together in our wake, I take a deep breath and crane my neck to see if she’s followed us.
“Who are we looking for?” Dalton whispers straight into my ear. His explicit nearness has sent a chill down my spine subsequently causing the corners of my mouth to turn up. He’s bent slightly, his eyes even with mine and trying to see what I see.
“That journalist fromThe Nashville Reporter. I have no idea how she got in, but I have no desire to speak to her about anything that’s been happening.”
Dalton straightens slowly, and his ever watchful eyes scan the room. I’m not sure if he’s successful, but he leans slightly toward me and asks, “Where’s the last place she would expect to see you?”
Over my dead body will I go out on that dance floor. My darting eyes betray me because no sooner have they left the center of the party that Dalton grabs my hand and guides me forward. He’s pressed against me, one hand in mine, the other on the small of my back. “I could just leave,” I say. The thought is lost to the bump of the speakers.
I hate dancing, but something about his touch, about him, has lulled me into a sense of security. The song, which I’ve never heard before, is at a decent pace, thank God. Dalton, again, is close to me, but not touching. His back is to the side of the room we came from, and his frame is big enough to block the view of me from anyone over there. Between that and all eyes on the famous couples, there’s no way Genelle will find me.
“Thanks,” I relent, far too focused on his aptitude with dancing to say much of anything else.
“It’s not a problem,” he answers easily, motioning toward a far corner. “Mitch has this whole thing locked down, so I figured I’d have a little fun anyway.”
My eyebrows raise in surprise as I start to involuntarily sway to the music. “I don’t take you as an ‘I dance for fun’ kinda guy.”
“I didn’t mean the dancing,” he answers too quickly. My eyes narrow and I swear I see him blush slightly.
“What did you mean?”
“Forget it,” he huffs.
“It’s me, isn’t it?” I laugh. “You just love hanging out with me that much.” He stops moving, and in turn, I do too. There's anawkward charge between us that simultaneously scares me and wants me to move closer to him.
The song changes to some remix of Michael Jackson’s “Thriller,” and the whole room’s energy goes through the roof. The floor is flooded with everyone who hasn’t already been dancing. In fear of being run over, I take a step closer to Dalton, and he drapes an arm around me. Another striking charge of something most would call attraction soars between us, and I have to do everything in my power not to break away and run.
We get tossed into a line and very haphazardly get through the entirety of the dance to the 80s hit. It was either that, or have to deal with whatever feelings I’ve got pumping through me.
We dance to a few more songs, but when a final slow dance begins, we both know that it’s time to go. Without a word, he walks me to the coat room and then out the door. He doesn’t touch me again, but he’s ever attentive, even opening the door of my car. Once I’m settled inside, he pauses. I wish he would just go and close the door already. Each moment that passes by between us is making it harder for me to keep my poise.
Needing to break the attraction between us, I feel a joke about to blurt from my lips. “I’d invite you back to my place, but I think we both know that’s a bad idea. You’ve got a dog to get home to.”
