Before I can respond, someone taps a spoon against a glass. Then another. Then another. In seconds, the room is filled with the high, chiming clink of metal on crystal.
I startle and glance around the room, unsure of what’s happening.
“What is that?” I ask half-laughing, half-ready to dive for cover.
“American tradition,” he says dryly. “The clinking means they want us to kiss.”
My eyes widen. “Now? In front of everyone?”
“Well,” he says, mouth curving, “we did it once already, but we don’t have to, and I can tell by the look on your brother’s face, he’s about ready to disassemble me if I kiss you again.” Scottie’s eyes glance down at my mouth for a moment and then back into my eyes.
My pulse skips.
Last time, I was in shock. Caught by surprise. Still reeling from vows and diamonds and the weight of my grandmother’s expectations.
This time, I see him lean in. I feel the choice as it approaches.
I make it.
I tilt my face up to his.
He kisses me softer this time… slower. A brush of lips is all it takes. There’s no urgency to it, no audience-conscious performance—just the quiet pressure of his mouth against mine, the faint exhale through his nose, the way his fingers flex at my waist.
I sigh without meaning to; the sound is swallowed between us.
The room around us erupts again, but I barely hear it.
All I know is that somewhere between the rooftop and this dance floor, I need to find the line between fake and real if I’m going to survive him, and keep myself from blurring the lines of what we are, and what we are not.
It wouldn’t be that difficult to fall for Scottie Easton. In fact, I bet I could do it without even noticing it’s happening, which is why, after tonight, I need to make sure I keep my mind about me, and my heart out of the game, because we agreed to betemporary. And I won’t be the love-sick girl who reads too much into Scottie’s kindness.
By the time we leave Oakley’s, my feet are killing me and my cheeks hurt from smiling.
It’s fully dark now. The city is a wash of reflected lights as we head back to The Commons. It’s only a few blocks from Oakley’s, so all of us who are living there are walking back together.
Scottie is carrying my bouquet in one hand, fingers wrapped carefully around the stems so he doesn’t crush the petals. His bow tie is undone and hanging loose, his top button unfastened. He looks less like a groom and more like a man who’s just barely starting to come down from a high he wasn’t expecting.
We take the elevator up in comfortable quiet. The numbers blink past—as we reach the top floor, everyone else has gotten off many floors before.
At the penthouse door, he hesitates.
“I think,” he says slowly, “this is the part where I’m supposed to carry you over the threshold.”
I blink. “Is that required?”
“Pretty sure it’s in the marriage manual,” he says solemnly. “Right between ‘argue about paint colors’ and ‘buy throw pillows you don’t understand.’”
A laugh escapes me, soft and helpless.
“I am wearing a very structured dress,” I point out. “With many layers. And you have had alcohol.”
He snorts. “You don’t weigh anything. And I’ve had, like, two drinks in five hours.”
Before I can protest further, he shifts the bouquet to one hand and swoops an arm behind my knees, the other bracing my back. I gasp as my feet leave the floor, my hands flying up to clutch at his shoulders.
“Scottie—”
“Got you,” he says, grinning now, and nudges the door open with his hip.
