Aurora chuckles. “You see that? He has just made a deal, perhaps.”
“Is it always that fast?”
“It is always thatfinal,” she offers. “One day, you will walk between these tables like you own them. You will greet guests by name and remember their favourite conversational pieces, and you will keep watch for him.”
“I will,” I agree, but I respect them all too much to force myself into a role I have not earned. I am twenty, younger than some of the wives’ children, so I will walk among them andgrow older before them. I will earn my place over time—not in any hurry to be more than his wife, his pretty little deer, and the mother of his children, for the time being.
Warmth floods me.
My body reacts to him.
Clay rises to his feet, his eyes focusing on me, his hands smoothing down his lapels—and I wonder if the lack of a tie has thrown him. He says something to the men, causing their collective eyes to move to me like a wave.
Then Sir leaves them. He strides towards me, taking long, powerful steps that are neither hurried nor leisurely.
“He is coming to you.” Aurora stands and slides away, stroking my back as she goes. “Talk soon, sweet Fawn.”
When he steps up to the bridal table, all the hairs along my neck and arms rise for him.
I peer up at Sir, absorbing his presence like a grass flower might the sun, like the tides might the moon. “Hi, Sir.”
He smiles down at me, and I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Smoothly, he takes his seat. “You summon me with only your gaze, sweet girl. What were you talking to Aurora about? Me?”
“We were people watching, Sir. People so often watch you; do you ever watch them back?”
“Always.” Leaning back, he lifts his ankle to his opposite knee, lighting up another cigar and settling in. He speaks through an exhale of smoke. “Are you happy, little deer? Do you have everything you need?”
“I do now.”
Clay guidesme around the ballroom, table to table, thanking our guests for coming. My husband has impeccablemanners, a man of smooth movements and breathtaking charisma. We have more than four hundred guests, and over the following hour, we try to reach them all.
In my heels, I long for my perch, so we return to the bridal table. I eat chocolates, and we touch, lace our fingers, share our whiskeys, and people watch.
Another hour rolls by, and the dance floor fills. Single men smile at young women; the older men shuffle and bounce their hands in time with the music like they are conductors; the older children dance without inhibition.
Suddenly, all eyes are drawn to Cassidy, and I see why. ToYou Are The Best Thingby Ray LaMontagne, she moves as if commanding the music itself, spinning the sound. First she dances with Toni, then glides into Konnor’s arms. Her brother catches her, his steps seeming to be old partners to her sweet, gracious lead.
In my peripherals, I catch Max Butcher, still four seats down from me, leaning back, arm draped over the empty chair beside him, whiskey swaying like a brown wave in his glass. As is his style, he isn’t talking to anyone. Simply watching his wife, with a gaze that should be registered as a lethal weapon. It is equal parts possessiveness and something strangely vulnerable to see. What could he ever have to be vulnerable about? Not his size. Not his presence. Not the clear love between them. His eyes hold a war between wanting to lock his wife away like something too precious for the world and wanting to guard her as she conquers everything in her path.
I wonder about Max and Cassidy's love—how it must feel to be the centre of that man's universe. When she's in his arms, does she feel the same blanket of safety I find in Clay’s?
A Made Man—noting his rings and general expression of power—slides up to Cassidy, cutting in without invitation. He leads her through a few steps, his hand lingering low on herback. The air itself chills around me, and I snap my gaze back to watch Max respond, his pupils expanding.
I grip Clay’s arm.
“He won’t.” Clay places his hand over mine, stroking gentle circles on my knuckles. “It would ruin Cassidy’s night.”
Right on schedule—but not soon enough for Luca Butcher, apparently—the band begins to play Frank Sinatra’sThe Way You Look Tonight.
With eyes unwavering on his wife and her new dancing partner, Max Butcher rises, every muscle under his tailed black jacket bunching. I swear I see seams protesting his enormous biceps. He downs his whiskey in one smooth movement, then crosses the room with a prowl so lethal it seems more menacing than an outright storm.
Cassidy peers up at him as he meets her on the dance floor, big hazel eyes full of relief and understanding.
I think she says, “Oh, menace,” and loops her arms around his neck.
“Dance with me, little one,” he rumbles, moving his body into the man as if he were already a dead man—a ghost. Max pulls Cassidy into his arms. His expression remains stoic as they dance, but in his eyes I see the boy he might have once been, before the world ordered him to break bones and walls.
He sings the words to her, “Lovely, never ever change.”
