“Dance with me?”
Almost thoughtlessly, my hand moves to his before I can stop it, as if it remembers what to do when he asks me to dance. His grip, warm and strong, envelops my hand entirely. “Sure,” I say, wondering if this is another mistake to add to my growing collection.
With my wine abandoned on the bar top, Jake guides me through the crowd. The quartet transitions to something slow and intimate, a soundtrack perfectly timed for this moment of reckless nostalgia. His hand settles against my waist, the warmth of his palm seeping through the thin fabric of my dress. The contact is electric, waking parts of me I was certain had gone dormant years ago.
We’ve done this a hundred times in the past—at prom, weddings, backyard gatherings—and our bodies haven’t forgotten. There is no tugging or hesitation. We glide across the dance floor without thought or effort, sharing a center of gravity where his momentum becomes my invitation.
Around us, the glittering ballroom blurs into a kaleidoscope of light and shadow.
There’s no awkward stepping on toes or misread signals. Neither of us has to look down to know exactly where the other will land. Our dancing has always been like a long-term partnership; I stop reacting to what he does and start moving to what he’s about to do. A slight shift in his palm or a gentle tug at the small of my back tells me everything I need to know. Reading his body’s intentions is second nature.
I’d forgotten how it feels to trust someone so completely with my movement, to exist in flawless synchronicity with another person. Despite the magic of this moment, sadness wells up, thick and choking. This is what we could have had—what we did have—before he discarded it, discarded me, like I meant nothing at all.
“Sarah,” Jake begins, his voice straining with something that sounds almost like longing, “I need to—“
“Mind if I cut in?”
Amanda materializes beside us like a summoned demon, her crimson dress and flashing jewelry creating a barrier between our bodies. She wedges herself into the space between us, breaking our connection.
“Come on, handsome,” Amanda says, flashing a smile that’s all teeth and territorial warning. “Let’s show these amateurs what real dancing looks like.”
Jake’s mouth parts like he’s about to say something—an apology maybe, but Amanda is already dragging him away.
Her habit of showing up at the least opportune moments gets on my nerves—but I can’t cause a scene here. I’ve drawn too much attention to myself already.
So, I leave the dance floor, as far away from Amanda’s obnoxious laughter as possible. I glance over my shoulder. Her head tilts back as she whispers something to Jake, her body angled toward him in a seductive way. It shouldn’t bother me. It absolutely shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
With a frustrated exhale, I turn and move through the glittering throng, seeking refuge from the sight of them together. The hallway stretches before me like a promise of escape, quiet and dimly lit compared to the ballroom’s dazzling spectacle.
”—Jake doesn’t stand a chance.“ Tim’s words slither through the air, coated in arrogance. I creep behind a velvet curtain for a closer look. “The promotion’s as good as mine,” he says. “For now, let him think he’s winning.”
The promotion. Is that what Jake meant about opportunities opening up if we win? The warmth drains from my cheeks as the pieces lock into place. Tim is planning to sabotage our work,Jake’s work, my work. That has to be what they were plotting at the office, before Judy split us into groups.
Pressing myself against the wall, I slide back, away from Tim’s voice, the thoughts in my mind racing faster than my heart. As much as Jake has wounded me—as much as I’ve nursed that wound into a protective shell—I can’t let Tim destroy what we’ve built here.
Determined, I push through the crowd in search of Jake. Where is he?
“I know you’ve been sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong,” a voice hisses in my ear.
Amanda blocks my way. “Keep it up and it won’t end well for you.”
I stand my ground against her glare. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know it was you that day in the office.” Her fingers dig into my forearm, five points of pressure sure to leave marks. “What did you hear?”
“Let go of me,” I command, wrenching free with enough force to make her stumble sideways.
My eyes flick past her, scanning the crowd until I find him standing near the bar, swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. His gaze sweeps left, then right. Is he looking for me?
As I move closer his eyes finally land on me. “Sarah,” he begins when I’m close enough to hear over the music.
“We need to talk,” I interrupt. “It’s about the project.”
His brow furrows. “Wait. I need to tell you something first.”
“What is it?”
