“Dance with me.” It wasn’t a request.
She looked down at my hand. Then back at me.
“You’re very direct.”
“I don’t like wasting time.”
Her eyes flickered with something almost amused. “That sounds like a threat again.”
“Does it?”
She placed her champagne glass on a passing tray without looking, then slid her hand into mine.
Her skin was cool, her hand steady.
“I suppose I’ll find out,” she said.
I didn’t let my fingers tighten more than necessary, but I was acutely aware of the contact as I led her toward the center of the floor. People shifted around us, the crowd parting instinctively. When my hand settled at her waist, I felt the architecture of her gown beneath my palm.
She didn’t flinch at my touch, but she didn’t melt either. Instead, she matched my posture, one hand resting lightly on my shoulder, the other still in mine. The distance between us was minimal but intentional. Enough to feel her breath but not enough to claim more. We moved with the rhythm, slow and deliberate.
“You analyze fabrics the way other people analyze faces,” I said.
Her eyes flickered in surprise. “You noticed.”
“I notice everything.”
“So do I.”
“I know.”
Her lips curved. “You’re observant for someone pretending not to be working.”
“I told you. I’m always working.”
“And what are you working on now?”
“You.”
She exhaled a quiet laugh. “You really don’t flirt traditionally.”
“I’m not flirting.”
“That’s worse.”
Our bodies shifted in rhythm, the music wrapping around us like smoke. Her gown brushed against my legs with every turn. I was hyperaware of the curve of her waist beneath my hand, the steady rise and fall of her chest.
“You look like you belong here,” I said.
“I do.”
“That was confident.”
“I am.”
“You also seem unbothered.”
She tilted her head slightly. “You think I’m unbothered?”
