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My grandfather hands me the numbered ticket.
“Make a change, Rhys.” He says, before walking off.
I stare down at the number. Thirty-three.
Guests have already started to find their number matches and have taken to the dance floor under the glow of hundreds of hanging lights.
Dancing with a random person is not my idea of a good time.
Typically, I’d view attending a wedding reception as an escapade. I’d be scanning the room in search of the woman I’d be leaving with later. A few shots of whiskey and we might not even have to leave. A quick fuck in the bathroom or her car being preferable. Less attachment and it avoids the logistical question,your place or mine?The answer is alwayshers.
But not since my grandfather revealed my inheritance stipulation.
Now, I need to keep my dick in my pants and find anicewoman to date. No, toproposeto.
I’ve still yet to figure out how I’m going to pull it off. How the hell I’m going to find a fiancée in two months’ time.
My thoughts are momentarily sidetracked byherappearance.
Colette Davenport.
Until Hannah’s and James’s wedding ceremony earlier, it had been years since I’d seen her. Her smooth, pale skin stands out in a crowd of women with faux tans and sun kissed skin from the height of summer. Dark hair falling over her shoulders in waves and a heart shaped mouth with bubblegum pink lips. She’d walked down the aisle with one of James’s brothers then stood next to the other bridesmaids in their different variations of champagne-colored dresses. Colette’s dress being a strapless, heart shaped fitted bodice with a long flowy skirt that shows off her sculpted shoulders and trim waist.
I watch her now as her eyes move over the crowd, then land on me. They’re crystal blue, like the clear waters of Lake George we used to swim in when we were kids.
She’s a ballet dancer now. Edith had raved about seeing her at the NYC Ballet inThe Nutcrackerlast winter. It makes perfect sense. Colette’s always been a princess dancing around on her toes, now she’s getting paid to do it.
She looks down at the paper in her hand again, then back up. I remember those eyes, wide and unassuming.
I see the moment she realizes it’s me, and the resulting disappointment on her face.
Colette Davenport has led a sheltered life. She’s a good girl through and through. But it appears she knows enough to be aware of my reputation. The displeasure on her face is evident as she approaches.
“Rhys.” She says holding out her numbered paper. I do the same.
Thirty-three. We’re a match, yet complete opposites.
I let her discontentment fuel me. There’s nothing I like more than playing with my food.
“Looks like it’s you and me, princess.” I tell her. The nickname easily rolling off my tongue.
Her mouth drops open like she’s offended. Good. I hope she argues with me. Tells me I’m wrong about her. But Colette Davenport doesn’t argue. She does what she’s told and right now it’s playing this silly game and dancing with me.
Colette places one hand tentatively on the shoulder of my suit jacket. It immediately bounces up like she’s testing to see if I’ll burn her, before it settles back down. She doesn’t realize she’s the sun and I’m the one who should be worried about getting scorched.
I move one hand to her lower back, then wrap my other around hers.
She’s looking everywhere but at me.
“You look like you’d rather be somewhere else,” I say.
She shrugs. “This is fine.”
I laugh out of my nose. “Fine?”
“We already know each other. I was hoping to—” she shakes her head, “never mind.” Her eyes divert into the crowd again before finally returning to a spot on my chest.
My hands curve around the sides of her lithe body. I had always imagined ballerinas to be sticks, thin and brittle, but Colette’s body is toned, her arms sculpted and her ass is supple and muscular. Over her shoulder, I can see the shape of it lifting the light material of her dress. I drop my hand lower on her back. I’m enjoying the feeling of her under my fingertips when she releases a hand from my shoulder to jerk my arm up.
