“Not bad for a broody billionaire. I assume you’ve rehearsed that in a mirror?”
A low laugh rumbled from him. “You’re not so bad yourself, Rivers.”
The use of her last name should have cooled things off.
Instead, it set something else smoldering.
Lines had been drawn.
Tonight, they’d blurred.
Tomorrow, they might regret it.
But right now, in the hush of the lounge and the echo of Bublé’s croon, she wasn’t ready to walk away.
And neither was he.
The music began to fade, but they didn’t move.
His hand rested at her waist, hers curled lightly at his shoulder: two people caught in a silence too full to break.
The last note lingered in the air, suspended like a breath neither of them had released.
Beneath her touch, his pulse beat steady, faint but unmistakably there.
Not erratic. Not unsure.
Just there. Anchored and unwavering.
Neither of them spoke. The silence between them wasn’t empty.
It pulsed. It waited.
Like he was trying to memorize the way she looked in this unguarded moment: the warmth in her skin, the shape of her mouth, the quiet she rarely let anyone close enough to witness.
Arden swallowed, her throat dry.
She held firm, torn between staying in the moment or stepping away. She wasn’t sure which choice would say more.
Her hand didn’t move.
Neither did his.
Instead, he shifted slightly, just enough to press a fraction closer.
His thumb at her waist moved again, a slow drag of skin against fabric.
Not a tease. Not a mistake. A decision.
She should’ve stepped back.
She didn’t.
When she finally stepped back, her fingers skimmed the length of his arm, unintended, barely a brush.
But he felt it.
She felt the shift in him, the way something under his skin tensed like he’d caught himself wanting more.
