Page 208

The music vibrates softly through his chest, and I concentrate on that instead. On the warmth of his hand. The brush of his tuxedo jacket beneath my fingers. The fact that when I look up, he's already looking at me.

I'm not eighteen anymore.

And this isn't North Pines.

But wanting him this much still scares the hell out of me.

“Doing okay?” he asks.

“Surprisingly,” I admit.

“Your feet?”

“Still attached.”

“Good.” He guides me around another couple.

“You know, you didn't have to do this.”

“Dance?”

“Invite me.”

“I know.”

“You could've brought anyone.”

His hand shifts slightly against my back. “Didn't want anyone.”

I glance up, but he doesn't elaborate. Just keeps moving us through the music. And I let myself enjoy it. The way his hand fits against my waist. The warmth of his palm through the fabric. The steady pressure of his fingers when someone brushes too close.

He's not looking around the room and not watching the other players and not searching for someone more interesting. He's watching me.

“Bishop?”

“Hmm?”

“People are staring.”

“Let them.”

I laugh softly. “Easy for you to say.”

He bends closer. “Becks, I've spent half my life with people watching me.”

“Exactly.”

“But I don't think I've ever cared less about what they're looking at.”

I don't have an answer for that.

So, I rest my cheek against his chest. His arm tightens around me. Beneath my cheek, his heartbeat is steady, nothing like the frantic rhythm of my own. I close my eyes and let him guide me, trying to memorize what this feels like without wondering how long I'm allowed to have it.

And for a few minutes, I let myself pretend there's nothing complicated about being here with him.

No brother.

No history.