“I— what?” I stammer, feeling my cheeks heat with embarrassment.
“The drink? This is a dry bar. There’s no alcohol.” He lifts his glass. “Coke. Alcohol is on the other side of the party.”
“Oh,” I say with a laugh and take a sip of my drink, washing down crisp, refreshing cucumber and citrus. “Right.”
I always thought I would hate it if a guy ordered for me. It just always came across to me as so controlling and male chauvinistic, but Colt ordering a drink he knew I would like feels kind of nice. Really nice, actually. This is something I could easily get used to, and that makes me nervous.
I cling to Colt like a lost little puppy as we weave through the crowd of people, stopping every now and again for him to check in with some of the attendees I assume he wants to work with in the future. It sure seems a whole hell of a lot like he’s working instead of attending a massive party, but I keep that to myself and just make a mental note to try and make sure that he has a good time.
The crowd finally breaks as we near the refreshments table, the source of all those tiny foods I’d seen earlier in the evening. Every single item is miniature – cakes, sandwiches, meats and cheeses, nothing more than two bites’ worth in size. We each load up a tiny plate with the even tinier foods and take a seat at one of the many tables strewn across the more open area, where everyone is either sitting to eat or paired up and dancing. Colt picks up a tiny sandwich and I can’t help but laugh at the way that it looks even smaller in his huge hand.
“What is it with rich people and miniature food?” I ask him. “First the holiday party, now this one. Not a full-sized item in sight other than the drinks.”
“It makes them feel important,” he says. “The trick is to stop and grab a big, greasy burger on the way home.”
I look him up and down, soaking in his broad, toned body, and scoff. “Colt Fowler eats greasy burgers?”
Leaning in conspiratorially, he tells me, “Colt Fowlerlovesa greasy burger.”
“Forbidden fruit, and all that?”
A smirk tugs at the corner of his lip as he leans back in his chair. “Something like that.”
I watch as he fills - and proceeds to empty – his tiny plate two more times before he excuses himself and leaves for the bar to get refills of our drinks, and I pull a few more of those micro-desserts onto my plate while I wait for him.
The chair Colt had been sitting in scoots back and someone plops themselves into it. A man, younger than most of the people here, maybe thirty, faces me. He’s not a bad-looking guy. Classically handsome, but he reeks of Daddy’s money and little understanding of the word no.
“What’s a beautiful thing like you doing, sitting here all alone?” He asks.
I give him a tight smile, really not wanting to engage, and tell him, “I’m not. My…date is just refilling our drinks.”
“Oh?”
I offer a quick nod, trying to dismiss him, and look away. My hand settles onto the handle of my cane, just in case.
“Well, while you wait, why don’t we spend a couple of songs together?” He asks, inclining his head toward the couples dancing behind him.
A hand lands hard on his shoulder and Colt tells him, “She’s not interested.” The warning on his voice sends a bolt of lightning shooting between my legs.
“Shall we?” I ask him, standing and taking his hand, pulling him to the dance floor.
As we join the other pairs, I reach up to wrap one arm around his shoulder. He snakes an arm low around mywaist, and with his free hand, he holds mine, leading me in a slow dance.
Once I settle into the groove of following him, I lean into him, resting my head against the solid warmth of his chest. I lose myself in the smell of vetiver and sandalwood that rolls off of him.
We sway silently together for what feels like an hour, until my eyes lock onto the woman he had his eyes on earlier. She moves so gracefully, like she’s gliding over the floor, flowing through the air. Every movement she makes is perfect.
I tense with the sudden feeling of inadequacy washing over me, and Colt’s finger finds my chin, lifting my face so I’m forced to look him in the eye.
“Stop doing that,” he orders.
“What?”
“Doubting yourself.” He takes my hand in his again and continues leading me across the floor. “That’s the third time this evening. You do it all of the time; you shrink yourself down, like you don’t believe that who you are is enough. That if you don’t live up to this image you have in your head, you’re somehow less valuable.”
“I just don’t want to mess up,” I confess.
“So what if you do?” He lifts my arm up and I spin under our joined hands before landing back in his arms, his hand resting lower than it started. “Some of the best things on the planet came from someone making a mistake. Let yourself exist as you are and let that be enough. Don’t make yourself small.”
