“Bianca—”
“You match.” She’s practically vibrating. “You’re matching. This is the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”
“We’re not?—”
“You’re completely adorable,” Bianca continues, apparently addressing Mal now. “Isn’t she adorable? She’s been pretending you’re just dance partners for weeks and now look at you.”
“I think she’s magnificent,” he says calmly.
Bianca clutches her chest. “I’m going to die. Right here. Heart failure from witnessing perfect romance.”
I roll my eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I’m being accurate.” She grabs my arm and leans in close, her voice dropping. “Also, half the town is staring at you, so you might want to prepare yourself for interrogations.”
“Wonderful,” I mutter.
“Embrace it.” Bianca pats my shoulder. “You’ve got a hot date. Own it.”
She disappears back into the crowd before I can respond.
Mal is watching me with that amused expression I’ve come to recognize—the one that says he finds my discomfort entertaining but in an affectionate way rather than a cruel one.
“So,” he says. “Shall we mingle?”
“Do we have to?”
“You’re a sponsor. I believe it’s expected.”
He’s right, of course. The whole point of attending these events is networking and building community relationships, maintaining the studio’s reputation as a pillar of Bellamy Cove’s cultural scene. It’s just that doing it with Mal at my side feels different somehow. More exposed. More real.
“Fine.” I drain my champagne in one long swallow. “But you’re doing most of the talking.”
His smile is wolf-like. “I can do that.”
The first hour passes in a blur of handshakes and small talk.
Mal is, unsurprisingly, excellent at this. He navigates the crowd with an easy charm that has people leaning in, laughing, touching his arm like they can’t help themselves. He remembers names. He asks follow-up questions. He compliments people in ways that feel genuine rather than calculated.
And every time someone asks who he is, he says the same thing:
“I’m Isadora’s date.”
Not partner. Not friend. Not dance instructor. Date. The word shouldn’t make my stomach flip every time I hear it, but it does.
“—and of course, you’ll have to come to dinner soon,” Mrs. Whitmore is saying. She’s the president of the Women’s Business Association and has been monopolizing us for the past ten minutes. “I’d love to hear more about your work, Malachi.”
“I’d be delighted,” Mal says smoothly. “Though I should warn you, my schedule is quite full these days. Isadora keeps me very busy.”
Mrs. Whitmore’s eyebrows rise meaningfully. “I’m sure she does.”
I feel my face heat. “Dance rehearsals,” I clarify quickly. “For the showcase.”
“Of course, dear.” Her smile is knowing. “Just dance rehearsals.”
She finally moves on, and I let out a relieved sigh.
“That was?—”
