The noise of heavy footfalls coming down stairs shatters the moment. Shane raises his head with a low growl.
Male voices, loud with excitement, are nearby and then recede.
Alone again in the darkness, we’re hidden from view. He adjusts the front of his trousers, which I’m guessing are barely concealing his erection.
A little thrill of power courses through me, and I smile. “Was the kiss enough?”
“It was.” He pauses, tilting his head so his eyes glint in the moonlight streaming through the window. “And it wasn’t.”
My chuckle is soft, not wanting to give away our position to anyone nearby. “I meant, was that enough to make up for keeping you waiting?”
“Yeah, it’ll do.”
His casualness dims the joy of a moment ago. I don’t know what else I want from him. More charm? More romance? More…something.
A light flicks on nearby, illuminating our nook. We’re still hidden, except from each other’s eyes.
More footfalls on the stairs. “I say we should do a shot of that Rebel-knock 45 from Moran before we’re too drunk to know the difference.” By the sound of the guy’s voice, I’d say he’s already past the point of “too drunk.”
“No, that’s for tomorrow night.” This voice sounds sharper. Or at least less inebriated. “We’ll fire up some Cubans and each have a glass to celebrate.”
“You locked both bottles in the safe?”
“Yeah.”
When they leave the stairs and move away, I raise my brows at Shane.
“Are you dealing in liquor? You’re not even twenty-one.”
“Must be another Moran,” he says casually.
Liar.
He takes my hand and starts to thread our fingers together. I draw my arms back, hugging my waist with them.
“Rebel Knock is whiskey?” I ask.
“I think what he meant to say was reibiliúnach.”
“Which is Irish for?”
“Rebel.” His smirk is irresistible.
I want to know his secrets. I wish I didn’t.
He leads me into a small room with an archway entry into the main one. In the brightly lit space, there are lots of women in platinum-colored dresses and men in suits. None of the dresses are as formal as mine. My mom would say it’s better to be overdressed than under.
“Wait in the shadows until I signal,” Shane says.
“What?” My heartbeat kicks into a gallop. He promised no grand entrance.
Before I can ask what he intends to do, Shane steps out into the main room, blending in immediately and disappearing from view.
As moments pass, anxiety ticks up within me. This feels very much like waiting in the wings to take the stage during the pageants of my childhood. Lots of effort spent so I’ll look a certain way, and now every inch of me is about to be judged.
My fingers come up to make sure my lipstick isn’t smeared around my mouth. Mom’s features always grew so pinched over makeup smudges. Her voice echoes in my memory. “Don’t lick your lips. Don’t touch your face.”
On the most terrible of nights, six-year-old me looked flawless. At first.
