She didn’t miss the way his eyes cut briefly toward Marshall before he moved away.
“The man is very generous with your time,” Marshall muttered.
“I work for him,” she said. “That’s how that goes.”
For a moment they just stood there—close, awkward, surrounded by people slipping into motion.
Then Marshall said, “Dance with me.”
She startled. “What?”
“It’s just a dance.” His voice was rougher than the words. “You’ll blend in better on the floor than standing here like a target. I won’t read into it if you don’t.”
Lie, she thought.
He held out his hand.
She stared at it. At a scar on his knuckle. His hand didn’t shake at all, even with the room, the mission, the Senator, the possible assassins she kept imagining.
Then she set her fingers in his.
His palm was warm. Solid and familiar in a way that made her ribs ache.
They stepped into the crowd. The lights dimmed a fraction. The music wrapped around them, slow and steady. Marshall’s hand found her waist—cautious, then more sure when she didn’t pull away. Her other hand rested on his shoulder, the fabric of his jacket smooth under her fingertips.
He held her a respectable distance away. It was professional and appropriate.
She hated it.
They moved together easily, just as they had at the wedding. Muscle memory, she supposed. Years of high school dances and porch light sways woven into one smooth, wordless pattern.
For several measures, he didn’t look at her. His gaze tracked the perimeter, then the mezzanine. Then the doors at the far end where security shifted their weight.
“You’re counting guard rotations, aren’t you?” she asked under her breath.
“Among other things.”
“Maybe try counting beats instead. That’s what normal people do at parties.”
A corner of his mouth tugged. “You think either of us has ever been normal at a party?”
Point. She couldn’t help the small huff of laughter that escaped.
His attention flicked to her at the sound. For the first time since they’d stepped onto the floor, his focus narrowed down to her.
Everything in her went still.
“What else are you seeing?” she asked. “Besides exits and weapons and whatever else lives in that head now.”
He hesitated. “I see you haven’t had enough water. That you’ve been holding your shoulders too tight since we walked in. That you keep glancing toward the stage like you’re waiting for someone to flip a switch you can’t see.”
Heat climbed her neck. “That obvious?”
“Only to someone who knows your stress tells.” His thumb brushed, barely there, along the side of her hand. “Talk to me.”
“It’s loud in here,” she said, deflecting.
“I can still hear you.”
