Chapter 8
Sven is well-polished.I have to admit that. He’s also so good to look at and he knows all of the social graces, like which fork to use, what to do with finger water, and spooning his soup away from him.
I assume he’s housebroken, too, and I have to admit he makes a fine figure to go with to the ball. He turns heads everywhere he goes, being well over six feet five, and being dressed like a cross between a Viking god and a modern-day prince in red and green formal wear means I’m automatically the belle of the Yuletide Ball.
A small orchestra plays Christmas classics as we waltz and glide over the smoothly waxed parquet dance floor. Because I’m such a practiced socialite, I’m able to hold my own while navigating the shoals of small talk, introductions, curtseying, and responding to acts of gallantry.
Sven is gracious with every elderly man who requests a dance with me, and I’m passed from former business leaders to retired military men to reptilian congressmen and so forth.
Everything’s spinning like a dream when a mic drops with a thud, and a pair of cymbals crash. A mist spews near my feet, and I’m ripped from the weak grasp of my dance partner.
A man’s maniacal laughter roars over the exclamations of the other dancers, and I’m swept into the arms of a man in a hooded black cape.
He sports a black, curly beard, a glint of silver over one tooth, and his dark, bushy eyebrows glower over mischievous brown eyes.
“Jordan,” I gasp. “What are you doing here?”
“Claiming my dance with you for the rest of the night,” Jordan says. “Tell me, truthfully, are you enjoying yourself or bored out of your skull?”
“I’m going through the motions, and that in itself is enjoyable.”
He snickers. “Settling is never the secret to success.”
“Stop snickering.” I lightly punch his gut. “It’s annoying.”
“True, but I’m sent to rescue you from not ever being annoyed again.”
“That doesn’t make any sense,” I say as we waltz over the dance floor. The music has picked up again, and Jordan’s disturbance of the ball appears unnoticed.
Certainly, the finer people are great at pretending nothing is out of order—smoothing over faux pas and gauche behavior comes as second nature to those who aspire to master-of-the-universe status.
“I’m Loki, or Chaos, as opposed to Thor who stands for order and security.”
“Why invite chaos into my life?” I give Jordan a sidelong glance. “When my life has already been turned upside down.”
“Chaos and the unexpected are more interesting than order and stability.” Jordan’s voice purrs close to my ear, and his fake, black beard tickles my earlobe and neck.
“Is this why Jade sent you? To give me trouble? To annoy me?”
“To surprise you.” He twirls me around as the music changes from a waltz to a foxtrot. “Was that expected?”
Before I can say, “boo,” Jordan leads me into the walking steps of a slow foxtrot.
Thank goodness I tried out for beauty pageants and know how to ballroom dance. Is there anything Jordan doesn’t know how to do?
We spin and sway to the jazzier style of music, and to tell the truth, I’m enjoying it way more than the stuffy waltz with its even and predictable steps.
“You’re definitely not what I expected,” I answer him, leaning back and twirling my head on the two quick steps.
“Good, because predictable is boring, and you would have been unhappy.” Jordan’s black cape swirls around my body as he wraps me into an unexpected dip.
I catch my breath and can’t help sinking into his dark and soulful gaze—deep set like the eyes of a Russian orthodox saint with a shining halo around his crown, in contrast to the dashing and devilish black beard.
“Are you saying I would have been unhappy married to Stephen?” I, too, can play devil’s advocate.
“You tell me.” He guides me into another dip which leaves me breathless.
“My parents were so proud of me when I landed the engagement.” They’d invested so much into singing and dancing lessons and the beauty pageants.
