Page 29 of A Match Made in Error

It starts loose. Casual. Almost lazy. A shoulder roll that says he’s not trying or taking it too seriously, a little shrug paired with a grin that absolutely says he knows exactly what he’s doing. His feet stay planted for half a beat too long, like he’s daring the rhythm to catch up to him, and when it does, I’m watching someone surrender to music without shame.

His hips swing first. Not aggressive. Not forced. Just…natural. Effortless. Like he’s danced in kitchens at midnight and empty rooms with no audience millions of times. And as much as he loves an audience, it’s like this joy belongs to him whether anyone is watching or not. His arms follow, hands slicing the air with playful precision, wrists loose, fingers snapping at nothing in particular. Every movement feels unplanned, and yet, perfect, as if his body and the beat are old friends.

I feel my eyebrows climb without my permission, heat gathering in my core.

He continues to give in to it, head tipping back slightly, eyes half-lidded, mouth tugged into that infuriating half-smile of someone who is painfully comfortable in his own skin. There’s a bounce in his step, a ridiculous little groove that shouldn’t work with someone built like him, but it does. I think it works too well.

And then he commits because somehow he hadn’t yet. I’ve seen him dance before.

But I know with absolute certainty it’s never made me feel this way before.

A full-body roll. Smooth. He shifts his weight and lets the rhythm drag through him from shoulders to spine to hips, like he’s letting go of something heavy and doesn’t care who sees it fall. He laughs, actually laughs, and it hits me harder than the dance itself, because it’s so unguarded. So free. I haven’t seen him this way in so long. Free from the crushing weight of his memories and oppressive girlfriends who care too much about others’ opinions to let him drink a little too much and let loose.

I’m sitting here stunned, thoughts caught somewhere between is he serious? and oh no…I think I’m into this.

I’ve never considered that there’s something dangerously attractive about a man who dances like he has nothing to prove. Like joy is his birthright. Like the world hasn’t worn him down enough to make him self-conscious, even though I know it has.

Like Riven.

“I always knew you guys liked one another.” Angora’s voice, which somehow is less insufferable on the Isle, pulls my attention. Where the hells did she come from? “That’s why I hated you.”

My mouth opens and closes. I want to say that’s ridiculous, that he didn’t, that he’d never choose me. But that would blow our cover. So I stay silent and sit in the wake of her words.

“Glad we can all be happy now,” she says before walking away to be with her match.

When I look up and see that Riven’s eyes are still locked on mine, her words begin to take on new meaning.

It must just be the island air. I mean, everyone looks hotter with wind-blown, salt-tousled hair. Right?

Our acceptance of this match is only to avoid the curse and silently stick it to the Moirai. Nothing more.

By the time he finishes dancing, still grinning, still loose, still glowing with that carefree energy, I realize I’ve forgotten to blink. My mouth snaps shut as he walks up and sinks into the chair beside mine once more, slinging a casual hand over my bare thigh.

And worst of all?

I think I like his hand resting there…and I really want him to keep dancing.

Chapter Eleven

POPPY

Iswat my hand in front of my face, trying to keep the gnats from nesting in my hair. “I thought this was supposed to be a luxury island getaway, not a survival challenge.” The rickety rope bridge sways with each step we take. My foot presses into the old wood, sure that, at any moment, one of them is going to snap and send me careening to my death into the river below.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart.” Riven looks over his shoulder, making the bridge rock more violently. “If you fall, I’ll catch you. You’ll be fine.” A vicious wink. “Can’t say the same for your dignity, though.”

“You’re exhausting.”

“If you’re tired, you can ride me.” I choke on my own spit. He’s done it again. Let one of his jokes land a little too close to flirtation. I swallow before responding.

“Do you think before you speak?” I choke out.

“No one will judge you.” His shit-eating grin says he knows exactly how his words sounded. “Okay, I will, but only a little.” We’re the last people on the bridge, so the rocking has dulled to a low-level sway. I look at my hands, gripping the rope so hard they’ve turned white, and then I look at his, relaxed at his side. He’s seen worse than this, I suppose. Been in worse danger than a swaying bridge.

“You’re staring at my hands.” He looks down and flexes them at his side. “Do you want me to hold yours?” This time, his question is sincere. He holds one out to me, hanging it aloft like a lifeline.

I swallow again, the vision of him dancing on stage sparking and replaying freely in my mind. “No,” I rasp. “Thank you. Just keep going—I’ll follow your lead.”

“Since you’re using me as motivation, I’ll flex a little more for you.” He pops his pecs back and forth in a rhythmic motion before he turns around. My grip tightens, and my head spins. What is happening to me? It’s just Riven. He’s never made me feel like this…at least not since our first time in the Festival.