Page 114 of Gave Proof Through the Night

“Yes, I would love to look at the silent auction. Isn’t that what you just said?”

“You’re acting weird.”

I’m already on my feet, pulling him up with me.

The Argentinians sit square in our path to the auction tables, and the congressman is deep in a story about a fishing trip while the silver-haired man leans over to the woman and says something in Spanish. The woman replies back with a snide expression, and takes a sip of wine.

As we pass them, Jeremiah leans close to my ear with an amused whisper. “That’s not Argentine, you know.”

“What?”

“They’re speaking Spanish but with a German accent underneath. Not Rioplatense. Argentines have more of a lilting, almost Italian quality to their accent.” He laughs. “I mean, they’re only talking to each other. Why not just speak German?”

Oh, if he only knew who those people really are.

“Fascinating,” I say, while pretending to be enthralled by the VIP season passes for some New York team. I place a bid anyway.

“Status,” Zoe murmurs in the comms.

“Biometric override’s holding steady,” Suri reports.

Then the band shifts into something slow, and Jeremiah pulls me onto the floor before I can protest.

“I’m a terrible dancer,” I say, laughing all the way.

He spins me under his arm. “You survived on ice skates. This should be a piece of cake.”

He pulls me in close after, one hand warm against my lower back, the other holding mine like it’s something precious, and for one whole song there’s no vault, no earpiece, no man across the room counting the minutes until he can ruin my life. Just this. His chin against my hair. His heartbeat, steady under my palm.

“I just wanted one dance,” he murmurs. “One thing that’s not about anything else.”

Me too. Gosh, me too. Just this. Just for a little while.

I let myself have it, the whole song, every last bar of it, because I don’t know when I’ll get another one like it.

“Evita’s on the move.” Rue, sharp in my ear.

My whole body goes still. Over Jeremiah’s shoulder, I see the Argentinians rise from their table.

“I see,” I say.

Jeremiah pulls back an inch. “See what?”

“Pee. I really have to pee.”

He kisses my forehead and I excuse myself.

I dodge a waiter, a cluster of hockey bros, and a lady who’s had too much champagne already, and finally clear the doors.

“Ginger. Operation baguette.”

The second I’m through, she’s already in motion, planting herself in the entrance and informing the maître d’, at full volume, that she has never in her life been asked to produce a reservation confirmation. Does he know who her family is? Get her the manager, immediately.

“Keep it up, baguette,” Rue says, amused. “It's working.”

“I’ve got eyes on Evita,” I say.

“Hobbs in pursuit,” Rue adds.