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LUKE
“Why is it the man who leads, anyway?” she asks stubbornly.
“Well, in this case, because I’m the one who suffered through middle school dance lessons.” I change up our direction, so that she’s moving backward across the dance floor, and needs to trust me.
She fights it for a second, and our knees bash, before she grudgingly gives in and lets me steer her.
“You know what I mean,” she says. “Why with formal dance is it always the guy who gets to be the boss?”
I bite back a smile. “The politically correct answer is that it doesn’t have to be. These days people call the two dancers the Lead and the Follow, and it’s up to individual couples to decide who wants to dance which part.”
I dip her, forcing her to cling to me just a bit. Loving the way that, this time, she doesn’t fight it.
Our faces are inches apart.
“But the real answer men lead,” I say, voice low, “Is that the fastest way to get a man out onto a dance floor is to tell him he gets to have a beautiful woman in his arms, and he gets to move her where and when he wants.”
Hazel opens her mouth. “That is so sexist—”
I cut her off with a kiss. If she asks later, I’ll tell her someone was clinking their glasses. But right now, all I know is that she’s tempting me all day, and right now her mind is fighting me even as her body surrenders to my control, and it’s just about the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.
Dimly, I’m aware that people are clapping and cheering.
I reluctantly end the kiss and pull her out of the dip. “It might be sexist,” I say, my voice deep and low in her ear. “But you like it.”
She shivers, her eyes dark.
I almost lean in, every instinct I have saying to chase that kiss with another, when my mind finally comes back online.
What the hell am I doing?
I convinced Hazel she’d be safe platonically working, living, and faking a marriage with me for six months. And now I’m making promises to her parents, stealing kisses, and having stray thoughts about what she’d look like knocked up in my bed.
It’s this damn wedding, I think. That damn white dress she’s wearing, the ring that tells the whole world she’s mine...
It’s getting to my head.
“You ready to get out of here?” I say.
“Hell yes,” Hazel breathes. It’s almost a groan. “But won’t people be suspicious if we leave early?”
“That’s why I kissed you,” I lie. Then, before she can protest, I scoop her up in my arms. She shrieks in surprise and winds her hands behind my neck, holding on tight.
As if I’d ever drop her, I think, mildly insulted.
“You’ll have to forgive me, but it’s time to steal my bride away,” I announce to the room at large. Knowing, indulgent laughter fills the room.
“Thank you all for coming!” Hazel calls over my shoulder as I turn and carry her out of the room. “It means so much to us!”
Then she lowers her voice and says in my ear, “You can put me down now.”
“No,” I say, as we step out into the hallway. “You’ll end up talking to someone and we’ll be stuck talking for another hour. Now. Which way to the dressing room with all your stuff?”
She points.
Once we’re at least a few minutes away from all our guests, I start to feel a bit ridiculous carrying Hazel like this, so I set her down. My muscles are grateful, but the rest of me misses the weight of her in my arms.
We stop outside the room, and Hazel fishes a hotel keycard from a hidden pocket in her dress.
