And then he’s moving toward me with deliberate strides.
I don’t have time to shift my position before he collides with me. The impact is just enough to send champagne sloshing over the rim of my glass, splashing across the bodice of my black dress.
“Shit,” I hiss, more surprised than angry as the cold liquid seeps through the fabric.
“Such language,” he says, voice low and rough like gravel wrapped in velvet. “From such a pretty mouth.”
I look up—way,wayup—to meet his eyes, both amused and assessing. “Such clumsiness,” I counter, “from such a big body.”
Instead of apologizing, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a crisp handkerchief. Before I can take it from him, he’s pressing it directly against my chest, dabbing at the spill. His fingers are warm through the thin fabric.
“You’re not on my guest list,” I say, not backing away from his touch.
His scarred eyebrow rises slightly. “And yet, here I am.” He keeps holding the fabric against me long after the champagne’s gone. “Perhaps your list is incomplete.”
I pluck the handkerchief from his hand, deliberately brushing my fingers against his. “I don’t make incomplete lists.”
“First time for everything.” His gaze drops to my lips, returns to mine. “I’m Matteo.” Just Matteo. No last name offered.
“Raven Carter,” I say, countering his deliberate omission with full disclosure. Nothing about me needs hiding. Well, apart from my first name, which I’ve never given to hookups anyway, and that’s exactly what I hope this man will end up being. “The woman whose dress you’ve just ruined.”
“I’d say I’ve improved it,” he corrects, his eyes now making no secret of their assessment of said dress. “The wet look suits you.”
Around us, I’m aware of the crowd watching, conversations quieting. People pretending not to stare while doing exactly that. It’s the kind of attention that should make me uncomfortable—I’m supposed to be invisible at these events, the woman behind the scenes, not the one on the stage.
I find myself leaning slightly toward him, drawn to the danger he radiates like a space heater. “Does this usually work for you?” I ask, gesturing between us with the damp handkerchief. “The bump-and-spill routine?”
His laugh is unexpected; a genuine sound that transforms his face. “First time trying it, actually. I usually only have to tell women to bend over.”
“So I’m special.” I tilt my head, studying the way the scars pull when he smiles.
“You caught my attention from across the room.” His voice drops lower. “The only one who looked… interesting.”
“Iaminteresting,” I dutifully confirm.
He chuckles, the sound low and deliciously gravelly. Dear God, the way the sound washes over me and fills me with burning need is unnatural. And… inconvenient.
“So, I decided the best introduction was to give myself a reason to touch you.” No pretense, no games. The raw honesty catches me off guard more than the admission itself.
I should do something other than stand here with champagne drying on my dress and heat building beneath my skin. “Bold strategy,” I say, allowing a small smile to curve my lips. “Not particularly creative, but bold. I’ll give you an A.”
“If you wanted creative, I could have set off the sprinkler system. Made everyone wet, not just you.” There’s something in his gaze when he says it—a flicker of something that feels almost like anticipation.
“Destroying an event I organized is a strange way to flirt,” I observe dryly, arching my eyebrow. He pockets the handkerchief without looking away from me.
“Are you saying you aren’t flirting with me?” he asks, his voice husky now. “Because I think you are, and it’s working.”
Around us, the party continues, but it feels distant, muted. We’ve created our own gravity well, pulling everything inward until there’s nothing but this charged space between us. And with each word, the air between us crackles with unspoken challenges.
“Raven?” Derek’s voice breaks the spell. “The Marsh couple are asking for you.”
I don’t look away from Matteo as I answer. “Tell them I’ll be right there.”
Matteo’s lips curl with amusement. “It seems duty calls.”
“It always does.” I take a step back, reclaiming my professional persona like slipping on a coat. “Enjoy the champagne, Matteo No-Last-Name. Try not to make other guests wear it.”
As I turn to leave, his fingers catch my wrist, just for a moment. Just long enough to make my pulse jump.
