If you’d told me three weeks ago that I’d be attending a galawillingly, with a group of friends, I would have laughed in your face.
Okay, I don’t have a deep bond with these people, but still—it’s a big deal for a girl like me.
James asking me to commit to their group was just for laughs, but it still meant something to me. And I’m glad going back to New York doesn’t mean saying goodbye to them. Or to Baptiste.
Every time he looks at me or our bodies brush, the butterflies come back in full swing. Yep, they’re alive and well. I’vebeen trying to chase them out, but it seems I no longer have a choice in the matter.
Especially here in the dimly lit ballroom, when he’s asking me to dance with him.
You heard that right.
“Come on, Harper,” he says, leaning a few inches closer so I can hear him over the music. His faint French accent is giving me chills. “Look, everyone’s doing it.” He glances at the dance floor, where players from both the Stars and the Stripes are busting out their moves, ties loosened, jackets discarded, all sense of rivalry seemingly forgotten in the haze of music and champagne.
“That’s what people say when they’re trying to get someone to do something forbidden,” I tease. “Are you being a bad influence on me?”
He chuckles, low and warm, but keeps his hand extended toward me. Waiting. Confident. “That would definitely be the other way around. Come on. You know you want to dance with me, Harper. Look at Beaumont—we can’t let him steal the dance floor like that.”
I follow his gaze, and it’s not hard to find Maxime, who’s stealing the spotlight with his elaborate moves. Even though it’s technically a slow song, he’s spinning Hayley like they’re in a dramatic ballroom competition. Everyone’s laughing around them, phones out to capture the chaos.
“Fine.” I roll my eyes, taking his hand. “Dancing with your friends does sound fun.”
His hand closes around mine, and he squeezes it lightly, not moving.
“No, no,” he rumbles, stepping closer. “You’re not dancing with my friends, Harper. You’re dancing with me.”
His gaze darkens, the playful glint shifting into something heavier. Intent. Focused. And all I can do is nod, letting him guide me to the dance floor. I try not to trip over my dress, the hem brushing the floor as we weave through couples and scattered laughter. My heels catch on the fabric before he steadies me with a firm hand at my waist.
Baptiste leads me—intentionally, I’m sure—to the opposite side of the dance floor from his friends.
He secures one hand on my waist, his touch warm. Solid.
His eyebrows draw together, and that’s when I realize I am really just standing there.
“Oh. Right. Dancing.” I clear my throat.
I wrap my arm around his midsection awkwardly, my fingers pressing against the back of his shoulder. The fabric of his jacket is smooth, and beneath it I can feel the strength of his firm muscles. Listening to the slow beat, we start to sway.
The music envelops us, bass vibrating softly through the floor. His hand shifts slightly, fingers spreading just enough to anchor me. My other hand is still in his, and he elevates our entwined hands, guiding the rhythm without forcing it.
My body is hyper-aware of everything—where his thigh brushes mine when we shift, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb occasionally traces an absent circle against my side.
I try not to overthink it. To notice how easily I fit in his arms.
“You’re tense,” he murmurs, leaning closer so his lips are near my ear.
“No I’m not.”
He huffs a soft laugh that ghosts against my skin. “You are.”
His hand presses at my waist more firmly, grounding me, and I exhale before I even realize I was holding my breath. My body relaxes, following his lead.
It’s the warmth of him, the steady sway, the faint graze of his jaw near my temple when we turn.
And for a dangerous second, I let myself imagine what it would feel like to lean in. To rest my cheek against his chest. To stop pretending this is just a casual moment between friends.
His gaze drops to my lips.
My heart stumbles.
