It was easier that way. Safer. As long as we were just colleagues, I could justify my continued silence about the Modern Wedding feature. Once we crossed that line again—once Mari became more than a business partner—the deception would become unforgivable.
So I maintained my distance, even as every fiber of my being wanted to pull her close again.
“Are you even listening to me?” Mari’s exasperated voice broke through my thoughts.
I blinked, refocusing on her face. We were sitting in our shared office space two months after that night, surrounded by mood boards and vendor contracts for the Kussikov-Martin wedding. My parents were arriving in five days, and my anxiety had reached unprecedented levels.
“Sorry,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “What were you saying?”
“I was saying,” Mari enunciated, “that Lia and Manny want something unique for their first dance. Something more than just swaying to a song while everyone watches them.”
“Right.” I nodded, trying to pull myself together. “Any specific ideas?”
“Several, actually.” She pushed a notepad toward me. “They mentioned possibly incorporating some of Manny’s Cuban heritage, maybe with a subtle rumba influence. Nothing too showy—Lia’s worried about looking graceless—but something with a bit more flair than the standard slow dance.”
I scanned her notes. “This could work. We’d need to find them a dance instructor who specializes in wedding choreography.”
“Already on it. I have four candidates lined up for video interviews tomorrow.” She hesitated, then added, “But I was thinking we should try it ourselves first. Get a feel for what works and what doesn’t.”
I looked up sharply. “You want us to dance together?”
“For research purposes,” she clarified quickly. “It’s easier to adviseif we understand what we’re asking them to do. Plus, I need to see if my ideas translate to actual movement before I pitch them.”
It was the last thing I needed right now; to hold Mari close, to move with her, to remember exactly how perfectly she’d fit against me.
“Of course,” I said, because what other answer could I give? “When do you want to do this?”
“I booked the Grand Room at the Palmer for an hour this afternoon. It’s empty before tonight’s event, and they owe me a favor.” She glanced at her watch. “We should head over soon if we want to make the most of the time.”
An hour later, I stood in the center of the Palmer’s Grand Ballroom, watching Mari connect her phone to the sound system. The space was magnificent—with soaring ceilings, gleaming wood floors, enormous windows letting in the late autumn sunlight. It would have been the perfect romantic setting if not for the knot of dread in my stomach.
“Okay,” Mari said, turning to face me. “I’ve put together a playlist of potential songs. You watched those videos I sent you, right?”
I had not, but that was because I’d had years of etiquette training. Mari did not know that. I was interested to see how she’d react. My parents had insisted on ballroom lessons throughout my adolescence—“essential social skills for our world, Hudson”—and the muscle memory remained.
Mari rolled her eyes, her hands on her hips. “Slacker. Fine, we’ll start with something simple and work our way up.”
She hit play, and the soft opening notes of a ballad filled the room. I recognized it vaguely; something current but classic in feel, with a gentle rhythm perfect for a first dance.
“Shall we?” I extended my hand.
Mari stepped closer, placing her left hand in my right, her right hand settling on my shoulder as mine found her waist. Damn it. Why did she feel so perfect every time I held her?
“This is the standard position,” I said, my voice sounding oddly stiff. “But for a rumba influence, we’d want something more like this.”
I adjusted our stance, drawing her closer, our arms extending more to the side.
“How the hell do you know?” She asked, even as she shifted to mirror my adjustment.
“I was raised by two wedding planners, remember?” I winked at her. “Besides, I like control.” I led her through the movement, a slow side-step with a subtle hip action. “One, two, three, four...”
Mari was a quick study, picking up the rhythm and following my lead with surprising ease. “This isn’t so bad,” she said, looking down at our feet. “I think Lia could handle this.”
“Keep your eyes up. Looking down at your feet is the surest way to stumble.”
She raised her gaze to mine, and the professional distance between us felt paper-thin. Her eyes were bright, with a small furrow between her brows as she focused on the steps.
“Better?” she asked.
