Guilt twists in my chest. She’s apologizing when I’m the one harboring feelings for her fiancé.
“You had your own stuff going on,” I manage.
“Dance with me,” Grace says suddenly, standing and extending her hand.
I blink. “What?”
“You heard me. Come on.” She wiggles her fingers. “When’s the last time you actually let loose?”
“I don’t dance.” The words come out automatically. I hate dancing—hate the attention, the spectacle of it all.
“Exactly why you should.” Grace’s dark eyes see too much. She knows I’m drowning here, suffocating under the weight ofOlivia’s happiness and my own fucked up attraction to a man I barely know.
A man who’s marrying my stepsister.
“Go!” Chloe shoves me forward. “We’ll hold down the fort here.”
Olivia laughs. “This I must see. Aurora Harrison on the dance floor.”
The pressure in my chest intensifies. If I stay here one more minute listening to wedding talk, listening to my sister gush about a future with Hunter, I’m going to crack. Going to say something I can’t take back.
“Fine.” I grab Grace’s hand and let her pull me through the crowd.
The main floor throbs with bodies and heat. EDM pounds through massive speakers, the beat vibrating through my bones. Grace weaves us toward the center, where the mass of people provides cover, anonymity.
“What’s going on?” She leans close to my ear to be heard.
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” Grace spins, her movements fluid despite the crush of dancers. “You’ve been off all night.”
I try to match her rhythm, feeling awkward and exposed. “Just stressed.”
“About your mom?”
“Sure.”
Grace stops moving. Crosses her arms. In the middle of the pulsing dance floor, she stares at me.
“Seriously?” I shout over the music.
“Not moving until you tell me what’s actually wrong.”
A guy bumps into my back, muttering an apology. The lights strobe across Grace’s face in an array of pink, blue, and green. She doesn’t budge.
“It’s complicated,” I finally admit.
“When isn’t it?” She grabs my hands, forcing me to sway with her. “Talk to me, Aurora. You’re freaking out about something.”
My stomach clenches. I can’t tell her. Can’t admit that every time Olivia mentions Hunter’s name, I feel heat pool low in my belly.
The words stick in my throat. Grace is the only one I could tell. The only one who wouldn’t run straight to Olivia with every secret I spill.
I lean closer, lips brushing her ear. “Bathroom. Now.”
Her eyes widen, but she nods.
We push through the crowd, Grace leading the way. The bathroom is marginally quieter; the bass has been reduced to a dull thud. Two women touch up their makeup in the mirror. Grace checks under the stall doors, confirms we’re otherwise alone.
