Page 176 of One of Those Amnesia Stories

I cleared my throat, the words rising automatically. “I’m not here for him.”

Her eyes twinkled. “Still. He got you here, didn’t he?”

I scanned the room. Found him near the bar, mid-conversation with Liam and an investor. As if he felt my gaze, his eyes lifted and found mine. He held them, still talking, still engaged with whoever was in front of him, but his focus was on me.

I tore my gaze away and looked back at Mrs. Garcia. “Who threw you the life jacket?”

She turned, positioning herself directly in front of me. Then she looked over my shoulder, a soft, private smile playing on her lips. The pause stretched so long I thought she wouldn’t answer.

Then, softly, before she moved past me to join the man waiting behind us, she said:

“My husband.”

“Leaving?”

I stopped at the sound of his voice and turned.

My hour was almost up. I’d done my final sweep—checked every corner, confirmed every detail. The guests were seated, the first course was about to emerge from the kitchen. Naija and I had reviewed every contingency one last time. Everything was in place.

Now, I needed to leave. Before the jinx could find me.

“I don’t know if you know,” I started, “but I don’t stay—”

“Longer than an hour at any of your events.” He finished the sentence as he crossed the space between us, stopping just before me.

“So you do know.”

He nodded, his gaze moving slowly across my face. “When we were together, I liked it. The tradition.” A small, wistful smile. “It meant you’d be home sooner.” The smile faded. “Now?” He shook his head slowly. “I don’t like it. Hate it, actually. Hate it so much that I’m tempted to keep you here—past the hour, past the rule—just to prove to you that nothing will go wrong.”

“Cassian.” My voice carried a warning.

His face broke into a smile. Bright, unguarded, utterly disarming. “I won’t.” He pulled out his phone, tapped the screen a few times, and turned it to face me.

A timer. Five minutes.

“We have ten minutes left of your hour,” he said, pocketing the phone. “Spare five of them for me.” He extended his hand, palm up, waiting. “Dance with me.”

My brain stopped.

Literally stopped. The processing center shut down.

Dance?

I stared at his hand.

Open. Waiting. Trembling just slightly.

I looked at his face. Hopeful. Terrified. Brave.

Back at his hand.

After what felt like an eternity compressed into seconds, I finally met his eyes. “I don’t dance.”

His smile grew wider, impossibly warm. “You do with me.”

I do?

I crossed my arms. “I might have. But not anymore.”