What am I, a medieval lord approving a land treaty?
But his expression softens in a way that makes me think maybe I didn’t completely blow it.
“Good?” he repeats.
I lift one shoulder and try to reclaim some dignity. “Yes. Good. I am… pro-flirting. Generally speaking.”
“Generally?”
“Oh my God.” I close my eyes briefly. “Please don’t make me clarify. I’m hanging on by a thread here.”
That gets a real laugh out of him.
A real one.
Low and warm and delighted.
And just like that, the tiny mortification curl of my soul loosens. Because if I can make him laugh like that, maybe I can survive anything.
Even mutual attraction.
Even hand-holding.
Even the possibility that tonight might actually mean what I desperately want it to mean.
He’s still smiling when he says, “I’ll stop making you clarify.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
We drift back inside after a minute because the reception is shifting into dinner, and apparently some people at weddings expect you to do things other than stand under café lights having emotional revelations.
Rude.
Our table is near the edge of the dance floor, close enough to the action to feel festive but far enough away that conversation is possible. The centerpiece is dramatic enough to qualify as theater: black taper candles, dark roses, silver goblets,something that looks like forged metal, and a place card shaped like a dragon scale.
I pick mine up. “I would like it noted that if anyone here forgets to take home their place cards, I will steal them.”
Miller pulls out my chair for me, because of course he does. “You really have no shame about your kleptomania?”
“It’s not kleptomania if it’s themed.”
“That feels legally inaccurate.”
“Maybe. But spiritually, I think I’m right.”
He sits beside me. Beside me. Not across from me. His mere proximity feels like its own kind of miracle.
Devon isn’t here yet, thank God. Him observing my clumsy attempts to flirt with Miller might just be the scissors that cut the thread by which I am hanging.
No one else is seated yet either, except a woman and her husband I vaguely recognize from Geeta’s side of the office social scene. Miranda, I think.
They seem nice.
More importantly, they are not currently speaking to us.
A server appears to pour water, and I become abruptly aware that I may already be slightly tipsy.
