Page 82 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

He hesitated. I could see him thinking about it, weighing the pros and cons, probably calculating the risk of being seen dancing in public, doing that thing he did where he turned everything into a business decision.

“Never mind,” I said. “I’ll go by myself.”

I turned and walked toward the makeshift dance floor, feeling his eyes on my back. I glanced over my shoulder and shot him what I hoped was a flirty look—the kind that said your loss, Bancroft—and then I was in the middle of it, surrounded by strangers and music and the warm night air.

I closed my eyes and moved.

I wasn’t a great dancer. I’d never taken lessons or anything formal. But I knew how to feel music. I let it move through me, and right now the wine was making everything feel loose and easy and so damn good. I raised my arms above my head and swayed and didn’t care who was watching. My hips were doing their own little shimmy.

When I opened my eyes, a man was standing in front of me. He was tall and dark-haired. He smiled and said something I didn’t catch over the music, gesturing like he was asking to dance. I was about to nod when an arm wrapped around my waist from behind. It felt like one of those hooks that pulled you off stage.

I smelled him. Not in a bad way, but I knew exactly who it was that was manhandling me.

Cash.

He appeared beside me like he’d materialized out of thin air. One second I was staring into the eyes of a beautiful stranger and the next Cash was there, pulling me against him. The dark-haired man held up his hands in surrender, grinned, and melted back into the crowd.

“You’re here,” I said stupidly.

“I’m here.”

“Thought you didn’t dance.”

“I don’t.” He spun me, smoothly and confidently, and I realized he absolutely did know how to dance. “But I don’t share either.”

Something hot and bright shot through me. “Don’t you?”

“No.” He pulled me closer. “Not you.”

We moved together and holy shit. Cash was a good dancer. Better than good. He led and I followed and somehow we fit, like we’d been doing this for years instead of seconds. His hand was firm on my waist. I could feel the heat of him through my clothes. His eyes never left mine.

“You lied,” I said breathlessly. “You can dance.”

“My mother made all of us take ballroom lessons when we were kids.” He dipped me and I laughed. “She said we’d thank her eventually.”

“Are you thanking her?”

“Right now? Absolutely.”

The music shifted into something slower. He adjusted his hands and pulled me flush against him. Suddenly there was no space between us at all. I could feel every hard line of his body. My hand was on his shoulder. His was spread across my lower back. We swayed.

“This is dangerous,” I whispered.

“I know.”

“We said we weren’t doing this.”

“I know that too.”

But neither of us moved away. His thumb traced small circles on my back. I was staring at his mouth. I shouldn’t have been, but I couldn’t help it. I kept remembering what it felt like to kiss him. I knew the taste of him. I knew what those lips felt like against my own.

A small groan escaped me before I could stop it.

“Cleo,” he said quietly.

“Don’t.”

I kissed him. Or he kissed me.