Page 45 of His Daughter

She caught my eye across the room. I raised my glass. She walked toward me, and the crowd between us parted without being asked.

"Ms. Calloway," I said like a true gentleman, letting my eyes travel over her, then back to her face. "You clean up well."

"Don't start."

I smirked. She fought a smile. We were off.

She was good in the room. Better than good. She talked to donors about the nonprofit. People leaned in.

Caine’s wife, Evelyn, took her card, squeezed her hand, and said, "You must come to our next board meeting."

Thea was charming because she was completely herself in a room full of people who were completely not, and I watched her do it from across the ballroom.

She caught my eye during a toast. She looked away first. I didn't.

The band started, slow and golden, with a saxophone leading. Couples moved onto the floor. Thea was standing near the bar, talking to a woman from the board, when a man approached her. Tall. Dark suit. He said something. She laughed. He held out his hand.

She glanced at me. Through the crowd, her eyes found mine. It was as if she was asking permission she didn't need from a man who had no right to give it.

I nodded. Why wouldn't I? She wasn't my date. She wasn't mine. She took his hand. They walked onto the floor.

I watched. I told myself I was watching casually. I was a man at a party, watching the crowd.

Then his hand settled on her waist. She put her hand on his shoulder. They moved together. She laughed at something he said, and her head tilted back, and the light caught the line of her throat. The very spot I kissed before I drove myself into her.

She looked more relaxed with him than she ever did with me.

Jesus. I can’t take this anymore. I put the drink down. I walked onto the floor.

"Mind if I cut in?"

The man looked at me. He knew who I was. Everyone in this room knew who I was, so he stepped aside. Smart choice.

I took Thea's hand. My other hand found her waist — the exact spot where his hand was. She looked up at me. She knew what just happened. Her lips twitched until they finally gave and lifted into a smirk.

"That was subtle," she said.

"I'm not a subtle man."

"I've noticed."

The band played. We moved. My hand was on her hip, and the physical memory was there — underneath the fabric, underneath the evening, and underneath every careful boundary we'd built since she moved in.

I've touched this body before. She's been this close before. We knew what each other's skin felt like. We knew how the other person kissed.

My hand shifted on her hip and found the exact spot I held the night I kissed her on the street corner. The curve of bone beneath the fabric. The warmth of her skin through the silk.

She inhaled sharply, then let out a long breath that deflated her shoulders.

I cleared my throat. "You look beautiful tonight."

Her eyes dropped to my mouth. She caught herself and looked away, at the chandelier, at the band, at anything that wasn't my face.

But her hand tightened on my shoulder. I pulled her closer without deciding to, close enough that her cheek was near my jaw. We didn't speak. The room turned around us. And all I felt was the pull between us, steady and enormous, like the tide coming in.

The song ended. We stepped apart. She let go of my shoulder. I let go of her waist. The distance returned, and it was the coldest thing in the room.

"I need some air," she said and turned to walk away.