Page 69 of A Really Bad Idea

“The one desire.”

I look over to the band. The tune differs from the one I know because it’s a live band playing the song, using instruments that aren’t used in the radio version, but this is most definitely, “Backstreet Boys?”

A deep rumble of a laugh echoes from his chest. “Surprised?”

“You requested a boy band song at a gala reception at The Plaza?”

“What else did you expect?”

“‘The Way You Look Tonight.’”

His mouth is pursed in question until realization dawns on his face. “I saw Natasha standing by the coat check. I guess you ran into her.”

I nod. “I know I asked you to show me your woo, to see your moves, but honestly”—I pause, trying to figure out what I’m asking him exactly—“I don’t want to be another notch on your bedpost.”

His eyes widen at my assumption. “There’s no playbook. I might not be original, but trust me when I tell you that there is no other woman in the world I’d request Backstreet Boys for.”

I laugh in relief and fall into his chest as he pulls me in close, so close that I am enveloped in the musky scent of him.

He lays his head on mine and squeezes my hand. “Oh, Meadow. I might not have a million moves. There are only so many ways I know to impress a woman, but you are not like anyone else. And, if I have to come up with an entirely new way to woo, then I will with you. You’re so much more.”

More.

I gaze up into his eyes, and my heart skips a beat. The deep green has turned black as midnight as he looks at me with such intensity, so much earnest, that I nearly melt into the smolder of his stare. There’s a charge, an electric current that flows from that focus down to his heart, and it’s beating out of his chest against my own. I feel it in his fingertips, so soft to touch yet rugged in their conviction to hold on to me.

The music continues to play, but our feet slow down to almost a halt. It might be the lighting from the overhead crystals of the chandeliers and scotch that is making me fuzzy, but I swear, at this moment, there’s a conversation being spoken with our breaths.

His being taken too deeply.

Mine barely registering against my lips.

I feel it, too.

“May I cut in?” Aaron taps Christian on the shoulder, and it takes a moment too long for us to realize he’s asking to dance with me.

The song—our song—ends, and a generic song plays. Whatever spell we were under has broken, and Christian cordially drops his hands from me and takes a step back. My body instantly feels the loss.

“I heard you were here tonight,” Christian says to Aaron as if his approach interrupted nothing of importance. “Great seeing you again.”

“Likewise. We must share a drink later. First, I’d like to get in my dance with Meadow before someone else sweeps her off her feet.” Aaron extends his hand in asking for me to take it.

Christian gives me that eye motion, the one he made at the barbecue when he told me to go talk to Aaron. I squint my eyes at him because he’s incorrigible and so goddamn confusing that I think I’m going insane. He’s so good at plastering on the smile. It looks the same whether it’s real or fake, but there’s one thing he can’t hide from me. I can see it in the way his eyes tilt down on the sides.

“I’d love to,” I say to Aaron. My words don’t match my feelings.

Christian steps away as Aaron takes his place.

We resume the proper dance form, and his hold on me is wrong. Where Christian’s body radiates heat, Aaron’s is cool to the touch. That zing in my heart is now a tempered beat, slow and steady … the excitement lost.

“Enjoying the evening?” he asks.

“So far, so good. You?”

“Better now.” He smiles that perfect extra-white grin. “Did you get the chicken or the fish?”

“I don’t know. Christian must have selected for me, so probably the chicken. You?”

“Same.”