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As we near the doors, I touch her back lightly. She stops, watches me closely.
“We’re stuck together, for now anyway,” she says. “But don’t think you can control me.”
I fight a smile. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply, and follow her into the ballroom.
Gemma works the room smoothly, mingling with ease. Her true rebellious spirit is hidden again.
Guarding her means staying close, and charm is the most effective tool in my arsenal. The orchestra plays a lively swing number, and more couples glide onto the dance floor.
I extend a hand, palm up, inviting. “Care to dance?”
She smiles cautiously, teasing me. “Trying to look natural?”
I quirk a brow, “Is it working?”
“We'll see if you actually have moves.” She laughs. “And don't stomp on me, you're huge.”
At 6'5” to her 5'2”, she's not wrong. “Take my hand, I'll show you.”
With one hand pressed against the small of her back, the other clasping her hand, I get swept up in the dance, in Gemma. She fits so perfectly in my arms.
Holding her feels familiar, intimate, like we're in our own private world. I twirl her across the dance floor. This feels dangerously right.
I remind myself this is just part of the job, gotta stay professional. So why does her floral scent make my pulse quicken?
The ballroom fades away. It's Gemma and me, the music and her laughter—light and free, ringing out over the orchestra as she spins back into my arms.
A distinguished-looking woman approaches us as the song ends, clasping her hands together in delight.
“Oh Gemma, dear,” she exclaims, eyes darting between us with barely concealed excitement, “Is this tall drink of water your new fiancé? Anthony was telling me earlier about an engagement.”
Gemma's laughter is bright. “Mrs. Harrington. Dylan is—” She pauses, and I cut in smoothly.
“We haven't settled on a date yet.” I pull her closer with a wink, playing along.
Mrs. Harrington looks unconvinced but smiles nonetheless before moving on.
Gemma playfully swats my shoulder. “You owe me another dance, troublemaker.”
Laughing, I lead her back toward the dance floor. Her touch is electric, sending a jolt through me. My heart pounds as I try to ignore the growing attraction. For a suspended moment, everything else fades away except her ocean-blue eyes peering intently into mine.
“You're light on your feet,” I say casually as if my heart isn't trying to beat its way out of my chest.
“And you,” she counters with a raised brow, “are full of surprises.”
“It's part of the job,” I whisper.
“And here I thought your job was all about lurking in shadows and scowling at potential threats.”
“Scowling takes too much effort,” I reply dryly.
The final notes of the lively swing number fade and, reluctantly, I loosen my hold on Gemma's waist. Her arm slides from my shoulder as we step apart.
I ache at the loss of contact. Being close to her feels too right. I remind myself it's for the best—I'm here to protect her, nothing more.
Slowly, giving me time to pull away, she reaches up and brushes her thumb along my cheek. “Thank you for the dance, Mr. Knight.”
I take a subtle step back, gently grasping her hand and lowering it. “It was my pleasure, Miss Caldwell,” I reply formally, I reply formally, tempering the desire threatening to overwhelm my sense of duty. “We should get back. Your father will be wondering where you wandered off to.”
