Heat floods my chest. I force myself to look away, to focus on the man in front of me describing his company’s latest expansion. But my thoughts scatter like marbles across a hardwood floor.
All I can think about is the weight of Triston’s gaze.
Dad excuses himself to check on the team manager, leaving me momentarily alone near the bar. I take a sip of champagne, trying to calm the wild flutter of my heart. But then—
“Runningalready?”
His voice is a low rasp just behind me, quiet enough that only I can hear it over the music.
I freeze. My hand tightens around the glass. Slowly, I turn.
And there he is.
Up close, the air changes. His presence is overwhelming—commanding without effort, magnetic without apology. My breath catches in my throat.
“I wasn’t running,” I whisper. “I was… regrouping.”
One corner of his mouth curves, not quite a smile. “You look like you’re fighting a war.”
“Maybe I am.” I tilt my chin, trying for defiance, but it comes out softer, more vulnerable.
His eyes sweep over me, lingering, deliberate. “Blue suits you.”
My stomach flips. “Dangerous thing to say.”
He leans closer, the scent of him—clean soap, whiskey, winter—curling around me. “Then tell me to stop.”
I should. God, I should. But the words die in my throat.
The music shifts then, the band easing into a slower, softer melody. Couples drift to the dance floor, laughter softening into murmurs. The lights dim just slightly, golden glow deepening, as if the entire room is conspiring against me.
He holds out his hand. “Dance with me.”
My chest tightens. “I shouldn’t.”
“You already are,” he says, voice like velvet over stone. “You’ve been dancing with me in your head since October.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I want to argue, but I can’t. Because he’s right.
And so, against every ounce of better judgment, I place my hand in his.
His fingersclose over mine and the party tilts, like a rink you don’t notice is crowned until you start to glide and gravity chooses for you.
We step into the light together. It’s nothing at first—just a slow sway, bodies finding the same tempo because the song demands it. But then his other hand settles on my waist, low, warm, confident. The velvet of my dress drinks in the heat and returns it to my skin like a secret I can’t hide.
“Look at me,” he says, soft.
I do. It’s a mistake and a mercy at the same time. The room blurs around his face—those eyes that strip me to the bone without trying, that mouth that always looks like it’s holding back something reckless. He doesn’t smile, not really. He wears that restrained almost-smile that says he knows exactly what I’m doing to him and he likes that I think I’m hiding it.
“You’re shaking,” he murmurs.
“I’m cold,” I lie.
“Liar,” he says, and the word is so gentle I feel it like a kiss. “You walked in here on fire.”
“Your fault.”
“That’s generous,” he says. His thumb presses the smallest circle into my hip. “You were already burning. I’m just in the room with the lights off.”
