“I don’t know yet,” she answers, then takes her finger off me to down half her drink.
I almost flinch at that, too, but I understand. I need to do something other than stand here with a whiskey in my hand.Think, Hayes, think.
The live band they hired tonight starts to play “Come Away with Me” by Norah Jones, and I immediately recognize it as a waltz.
When we met last year at the ball, we never got to dance together, not in a ballroom, I mean. I hadn’t seen her, and she hadn’t seen me. I know if I had, I’d have asked her to dance immediately, and I regret that we didn’t meet earlier that night. We could’ve known each other longer, even if just for five minutes.
And sure, I despise dancing in front of others, Emma knows that. What she doesn’t know, or at least doesn’t believe, is that I’d walk on burning coals to get to wherever she is, no matter how far. I’d lie on a bed of needles for as long as she tells me to and smile while doing it if she only asked. And I’d dance a hundred dances if it meant having her close to me.
I set my glass on the bar, about to ask her to dance, when she speaks first, “I’ll go if you dance this waltz and can keep up with all the steps.”
My eyebrows shoot up, but I cool my expression. It was one thing to dance, but to nail every step? My palms start to sweat, and I’m not the kind of man who gets nervous, but this woman, my woman, my love, can stir up any and every emotion inside me.
I extend my hand. “May I have this dance, Princess?” Princess is a placeholder until I can call her mine. Eh, who am I kidding? I’ll be calling her a million things if she decides to stay with me. And if she does, I’ll make sure it’s for the rest of our lives.
Emma places her hand in mine, and we step onto the dance floor. Remembering everything Mom, Marina, my sister, and some women I met at business events taught me, I seem to keep up with Emma well. She’s always called herself a bad dancer, but I don’t think she meant ballroom dancing. Here she looks coordinated, self-assured, and her movements flow gracefully without interruption. It’s mesmerizing.
And even though I’m supposed to be leading, it’s clearly her movements I interpret as signals. When to spin her, when to shift my feet to one side or the other, and as we settle back into a rhythm after spinning her one last time, I pull her tighter to me. She’s been avoiding my gaze throughout the entire dance, offering the people around us polite smiles that I know are all for show, but never one for me. I gently grip her chin with both fingers and turn her face toward me.
Thank Christ this girl wears high heels, making her foot-foot-five next to my six-foot-three frame.
She lets me guide her face in my direction, but keeps her eyes closed.
“Look at me,” I whisper. When she opens her eyes, I see a flicker of wanting, sadness, then aggravation. We stare into each other’s eyes, and I let her express whatever she needs to. I want her to yell, stomp her feet, or slap me again—anything to show some kind of emotion other than lust.
“I hate you for leaving me like that.”
There she is.“And you have every right to,” I tell her. She nods, and I add, “The song ended two minutes ago.”
She tilts her head before looking around the room, taking everything in. We were so entranced with each other, she didn’t notice it switch to a slow foxtrot. The only reason I caught it isthat I need to get her downtown and show her part of what I’ve been doing.
Emma’s baby blues meet mine. “A deal’s a deal.”
Nodding, I lower my arms, wanting to kiss her forehead but decide against it. I intertwine our fingers, and she allows me that. I give her a reassuring squeeze before she picks up her coat, with no parents in sight, and we head out of the hotel to a black cab.
Chapter Forty-Five
EMMA
The car pulls up in front of an empty storefront in SoHo. I try to see if there are any particularly special places nearby, but all I find are a restaurant and more closed stores. What’s strange is that I walked down this block when I went shopping with my mom two days ago.
Grayson steps out, and before I can reach for the door handle, he’s already opening it and offering his hand. I glance at what he’s offering and decide I’m not ready to touch him again just yet. Not after sitting in the car for thirty minutes with him dressed in a suit, looking the finest he’s ever been. He attempts to hide his disappointment but fails. I mutter a quick “Thank you,” and watch to see where he’s taking us. My heels wobble a bit on the cobblestone streets, but I manage to keep my balance.
The tension since the dance between Grayson and me is awkward, and I despise it. We didn’t say a word to each other the entire ride here, which wasn’t exactly short.
“Over here.” Grayson points to the empty storefront whose glass is covered with white paper from the inside.
“What are we doing here?” I ask skeptically.
A key chain glints in the streetlight where fifteen keys hang, and he grabs one with a white top, puts it in the top lock, andopens the door. I raise a brow and follow him inside, not bothering to ask him the question again.
Grayson flips on the lights as soon as he walks inside, where there’s a wide, clean space with a dark wooden bar that seems to be the only thing in here that’s finished.
My eyes scan the place as I try to make sense of why we’re here, but I come up empty.
“Do you like it?” I turn to Grayson, who’s staring at me with an odd intensity behind his glasses.
“What is it?”
