“A photographer is coming to see your progress on the manor?” I asked, circling back to his incredible news. How had we gotten sidetracked from something so incredible?
He nodded, a glint of pride in his heated gaze.
I tried desperately not to think about his big hand splayed across my back, or my chest only inches from his.
“I know exactly what I want to show them. If you aren’t opposed to wearing a hard hat, I could take you into the work area later and see what you think.”
“I’d like that.”
We drifted around the floor with the other couples, a familiar tune weaving the moment into a memory.
“Everything okay?” he asked after a few moments.
“I was thinking about the house,” I lied, then something true came into mind. “I gave Cecily a tour. She’s an enormous history buff. She scrutinized every detail.”
“Did she approve?” he asked.
I nearly smiled at the quiet confidence in his tone. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“She thought the stained glass on the landing was out of place.”
Instead of the frown I’d anticipated, a soft smile curved his lips. “I almost forgot about that,” he said. “It’s for my mom.”
“Iris.”
He dipped his chin. “You remembered her name.”
“Of course.”
The song ended, and a slower melody began, but Davis didn’t release me. So I stayed, telling myself this was just another conversation between friends. We were simply in one another’s arms instead of seated on a couch or across a table. I had to believe this moment meant nothing, because if I let myself hope for more, it would be my undoing. Losing him briefly after learning he’d lied had crushed me, but it had set me back on the path I started. I’d grown and healed in the days since, and I’d resolved old family wounds. I had a solid plan for the bookstore and my future. And my time in Amherst was dwindling. I couldn’t bear to spend another minute nursing a broken heart. So if holding me meant nothing to Davis, it couldn’t mean anything to me.
“Emma,” he said cautiously, his voice so low I might’ve missed it had my ear not been pressed against his chest.
A round of applause crashed through the moment, and I sprang away.
The song had ended, and the band announced a break.
I had a feeling I’d dodged an unnecessary and night-ruining letdown. Davis probably sensed how completely I’d relaxed in his arms and wanted to remind me this wasn’t a date. We were here to celebrate his accomplishment with the magazine.
Tina waved from our table, where a number of dishes had appeared.
“I guess that’s our cue,” I said, moving woodenly in her direction.
She greeted us with a broad smile as we reclaimed our seats. “Welcome back. I’ve got your spinach-and-artichoke dip with pita chips,” she said, pointing at a bowl-and-plate combo. “Tomato-and-basil bruschetta.” She pointed to a long wooden board at the table’s center. “And blueberry goat cheese salad with house vinaigrette.”
I set a hand on my stomach, willing the butterflies away. “This looks delicious. Thank you.” Maybe if I ate enough, the food would settle my nerves.
“I can’t claim any glory here,” she said, flashing a smile at Davis before taking her leave.
Davis served a little from each dish onto two plates, then passed one to me. “What kind of soup did you say you were making?”
“Asparagus.”
Davis wrinkled his nose before tucking a bit of bruschetta into his mouth. Then he sucked a drip of oil from his thumb.
I looked away, hating the ideas that move had given me.
