She glows—gold and firelight under the chandeliers. An older woman calls her name, telling her to visit more. Another voice teases that they’ll still adopt her, at her age.
Jasmine laughs, tossing her head back. “Maybe in the near future,” she says, breathless. “I’ll think about it.”
Her cousin squeals and hugs her. More cousins pile in, laughing. The music swells—fast, bass-heavy—mirroring the rush in my ears.
I sip my drink, but I’m already moving toward her. Not by choice. Instinct.
I could wait. Ask later what she meant. But her expression as she answered her cousin—bright, then shuttering as she tucks a strand of hair back—punches the breath out of me.
I stop just shy of the dance floor.
She’s still talking, caught in the group. Her voice carries. “I’m just starting to think about where my future really is.”
And the music fades.
The laughter, the lights, the color—all of it falls away.
Just that one sentence, echoing over and over. Tearing the floor out from under me.
She’s dancing with Sonia—laughing, radiant. Her back bare, hair loose, hips swaying with careless grace.
“I’m cutting in,” I say.
Jazz has her back to me, mid-conversation.
Sonia turns, one brow arching before she steps aside. “You already keep her too much to yourself,” she murmurs.
It’s not playful and knocks me off balance.
My first instinct is to bristle, but instead I answer, calm and certain. “Maybe she belongs with us.”
It slips out before I can stop it. Not an argument. Just fact.
Sonia’s smile fades. “As your housekeeper? As your grown-up daughter’s caretaker?” she says coolly. “She’s too young to waste away pining after—” Someone snatches her attention.
Pining after...?
The phrase lands like a dropped match, sparking fire I can’t stamp out.
Suddenly I’m back in the kitchen a few days ago, when Jasmine told me she didn’t like boys her age. In the dark, when her lips brushed mine and I did nothing.
Moments shift, rearranging into a pattern I’m not ready to see.
Is Jasmine pining after... me?
Jasmine turns before I can get a grip on my swirling thoughts. “Nathan.” Her smile blooms. “You dance?”
“Apparently.”
Her hand slides into mine, warm, unhesitating. I pull her close, and it’s not enough. She fits too well—every breath brushing my chest, every sway grazing me. Vanilla on her skin, silk clinging to her curves.
Our bodies fall into step as if they’ve always known the rhythm—and each other.
“I didn’t know you dance so well,” she says, tilting her head. With that innocence that doesn’t quite yet grasp what magic chemistry can unleash between two people.
A sound escapes me—half grunt, half laugh. Words fail me under her curious gaze.
“But then,” she sasses, “you do everything well, I guess.”
