Our eyes meet.
And then?—
instead of letting go?—
he shifts his grip, threading our fingers together more securely.
I stop breathing.
It’s such a small movement.
Such a simple thing.
But it feels like the world is tilting on its axis.
I look away first because I’m pretty sure if I keep staring at him I’m going to do something deeply embarrassing, like recite a sonnet or fall over.
“So,” I say too brightly, “have you ever been to one of these before?”
“A themed wedding?”
“A wedding where the groom may or may not have referred to the cocktail hour as ‘the feast before the forging of alliances.’”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “No.”
“Same. Though I have to say, I’m enjoying it enormously.”
“I noticed.”
“There are a lot of things to notice.”
“I noticed that too.”
I look up at him suspiciously. “Are you flirting with me?”
His gaze rests on my face for one long second, before he admits,“Maybe a little.”
Oh.
Oh wow.
My heart does a full somersault.
The thing is, Miller is not a man who says things lightly. He jokes, yes, but sparingly. Dryly. With precision. So if he says maybe he’s flirting, then statistically speaking he is probably flirting with devastating sincerity.
I should say something charming back.
Something smooth.
Something that lets him know I am not only receptive to flirting but enthusiastically in favor of it.
What comes out is, “Good.”
I cringe internally.
Good?
That’s it?
