I laugh softly. “That might be the nerves.”
Or the way he’s standing close enough that I can feel the heat from his body, which is weirdly comforting while also turning me on. So close that I can smell his cologne, which is clean and subtle and unfairly intoxicating.
“Do you enjoy going to events like these?” I ask, clearing my throat when the words come out a little squeaky.
His gaze drifts over the room again, sharp and assessing. “I enjoy observing them.”
“That’s a politician’s answer.”
“Isn’t it, though?” He gives me that infectious smile again.
I smile despite myself.
“I’m supposed to be networking,” I admit. “But everyone here is very intimidating. Although I’ve studied up on who’s who, I definitely feel like an outsider.”
Julian leans in slightly, his shoulder brushing mine. The contact is casual, but sends sizzles throughout my body. “Rule one,” he murmurs, “no one wants to be here as much as they pretend they do.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me.”
That makes me grin. “That helps. A little.”
“Rule two,” he continues, voice even lower now, “if you look like you belong, most people won’t question it.”
“And if they do?”
“Smile,” he says. “Ask them a question. People love talking about themselves.”
I glance up at him. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“I’ve survived worse.”
Before I can ask what that means, a loud voice with a German accent cuts in. “Julian. There you are.”
A red-faced man claps Julian on the shoulder. “Ambassador Klein’s says he can meet with you on Monday.” His gaze flicks to me. “Oh! And who’s this?”
I straighten instinctively. “Iris Brooks. Journalist.”
“Ah, the press,” he says, chuckling like it’s charming. “Well, enjoy the evening. And be gentle when you write about us, won’t you?”
I smile sweetly. “No promises.”
He laughs, shakes his finger at me, and moves on, his eyes looking past Julian’s shoulder, as if there are more important people to chat with.
Julian exhales softly. “Impressive.”
“I smiled and pretended I belonged here,” I reply. “Years of training.”
“Dangerous skill.”
“So I’ve been told.” I watch the red-faced man as he moves through the crowd. “Who is he?” My list of people who would be at this event didn’t include the boisterous man whose booming voice we can hear even though he’s almost at the other side of the dance floor.
“One of the German ambassador’s counselors. He’s junior staff but has senior ego.”
The music swells nearby, and the crowd shifts. For a moment, it feels like the room rearranges itself so we’re standing in our own private pocket of space.
“Dance with me,” Julian says suddenly.
