The photographer arranges us carefully, suggesting we group closer for the shot. As Atticus's arm slips around my waist, perfectly proper yet intimately familiar, I lean into his warmth.
"Smile, everyone!" the photographer calls. "This is for the press release and the town archives. A historic collaboration!"
Flashes pop as multiple shots are taken. Through it all, I'm acutely aware of Atticus beside me, solid and real and somehow mine, at least for now.
After the photos, the formal program transitions to dancing as the band strikes up a holiday classic. Couples move toward the small dance floor, and I feel Atticus's questioning gaze on me.
"May I have this dance?" he asks, formal yet playful as he extends his hand.
"I'm not much of a dancer," I admit, though I place my hand in his without hesitation.
"I've seen you dance," he counters, leading me to the floor. "At the Blackwood holiday party last year."
"That was after three cosmos and Jenna's insistence that the electric slide was making a comeback."
His laugh vibrates through me as he draws me into his arms. "This is simpler. Just follow my lead."
And it is simple, somehow. His hand at my waist guides me effortlessly, our bodies moving together with the same natural harmony we've discovered in every other aspect of our relationship. I relax into his embrace, letting the music and the moment wash over me.
"Everyone's watching us," I murmur, noting the smiles and glances directed our way.
"Let them," he replies, unconcerned. "They're just witnessing what we stopped denying weeks ago."
"And what's that?"
His eyes, warm gray in the twinkling lights, meet mine. "That I'm completely, undeniably yours, Sloane Parker. And I hope you're mine."
The simple declaration steals my breath. "I am," I assure him, my voice barely audible over the music. "Completely."
Something shifts in his expression, a decision forming behind those intelligent eyes, but before he can speak, the music changes to a more upbeat number, and the moment breaks.
"I need some air," I say suddenly, the weight of emotions, joy, desire, fear of the inevitable separation, overwhelming me. "Just for a minute."
Concern furrows his brow, but he nods. "The terrace? I'll come with you."
"No, stay," I insist. "Keep charming the investors. I'll be right back."
Before he can protest, I slip away, making my way to the small terrace door at the back of the room. Outside, the night air is crisp and cold, the stars brilliant above the snow-covered town. I breathe deeply, letting the winter chill clear my head.
What am I doing? Falling headlong into a relationship that has a built-in expiration date? Atticus's life is in New York. My life is here. The Winter Division may bring him back for occasional visits, but the reality is that in less than two weeks, everything changes.
The door opens behind me, and I know without turning that it's him. His scent, expensive cologne and something uniquely Atticus, reaches me moments before his jacket settles around my shoulders.
"You'll freeze out here," he says, coming to stand beside me at the railing. "Everything okay?"
"Just needed a moment," I reply, not quite meeting his eyes. "It's a lot; the gala, the attention, us."
"Too much?" There's a note of vulnerability in his voice I rarely hear.
"No," I assure him quickly, turning to face him. "Never too much. Just... overwhelming sometimes. How fast everything's changed."
He studies me, reading between the lines as he always does. "You're thinking about what happens after the holidays."
It's not a question, but I nod anyway. "Aren't you?"
"Constantly." His hands find mine, warming them despite the cold. "But not with dread, Sloane. With determination."
"Determination?"
