Still, the second my palm settles against her, she goes a little still.
Not stiff.
Just aware.
So am I.
I leave my hand there as we walk.
The evening air is warm and golden with the last of the sun. Music drifts from the big event building ahead of us. Guests cross the property in clusters, some in cocktail clothes, others in varying levels of commitment to theGame of Thronestheme. One guy appears to be wearing actual faux fur in Texas in spring, which seems deeply unwise.
Tavey leans a little closer to me as we walk. Maybe because of the uneven ground. Maybe because she wants to.
I’m not going to ask which.
When we reach the main building, she slows, taking in the floral arch at the entrance, the lanterns, and the trays of drinks being passed around by servers.
“Oh wow,” she says softly. “This is gorgeous.”
The wonder in her voice does something to me.
That’s the thing about Tavey. She never acts likedelight is childish. She just lets herself feel it. Fully. Openly. It’s one of the things I admire most about her.
And maybe one of the things I envy.
As soon as we step inside, heads turn.
Not mine. I’m already looking at her.
But I notice.
Men noticing her. Women too, honestly. She’s hard to miss in that dress. Harder still when she smiles. There’s a server by the champagne tower who nearly walks into a pillar because he’s looking at her instead of where he’s going.
A small, primitive part of my brain is deeply pleased by that.
Another part is annoyed.
She’s withme.
The thought comes uninvited and lands with more force than it should.
Notmine.Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But tonight, she’s with me.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask quietly.
She looks up at me. “Yes, but only if it’s festive.”
“Festive.”
“Something blue. Or smoky. Or served in a goblet.”
“You’re making this difficult on purpose.”
“Yes.” She smiles. “It’s one of my love languages.”
Before I can respond to that loaded little statement, a woman in a silver dress sweeps by us and says, “Oh my god, you two understood the assignment.”
