“Ouch.”
She grinned into her beer.
It was stupid and light and easy.
And as she laughed across the table from me, eyes warm, cheeks pink from the cold drink, I had this thought I couldn’t shake:
I didn’t want it to be fake.
I wanted the ridiculous story to be true.
The song changed. Something familiar—an old throwback with a lazy, addictive rhythm. I didn’t even have to look at her to know Daphne knew it. She started moving in her seat, swaying a little, shoulders rolling, head bobbing to the beat.
God help me, she was adorable.
“Dance with me?” I asked, already sliding out of the booth.
She hesitated. “Here?”
I didn’t wait for an answer. Just reached for her hand. “C’mon, princess. Show me what you’ve got.”
Her fingers closed around mine, and that was it.
The bar didn’t have a real dance floor—just a patch of open space near the jukebox—but that didn’t matter. The moment we stepped into it, she lit up. She didn’t do the awkward sway most people did. She moved. Fluid and confident, like someone who forgot how to hold back.
I mirrored her, keeping it playful, a little cocky. Flirty, not serious.
She laughed when I spun her, eyes sparkling.
Then I reeled her back in and she landed squarely against my chest.
We were closer than before. Her breath hitched.
“You always this cocky?” she asked, breathless but smiling.
I dipped my head. “Only when I want something.”
Her lips parted, just slightly.
And for a second, I was ready to kiss her right there—damn the setting, damn the press, damn the timeline.
But movement behind her caught my eye. Some guy leaning on the bar, nursing a drink and watching her a little too long. Not watching us, not watching the music—just her.
My jaw tightened.
I shifted automatically, sliding my arm around Daphne’s waist and pulling her closer, enough to make the message clear: mine.
Her gaze flicked up to meet mine. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. It came out lower than I meant it to—gravel laced with heat.
She didn’t argue.
Didn’t push.
Didn’t pull away.
Instead, she pressed closer, resting her hand lightly on my chest. Her fingers curled into the fabric of my shirt like she was anchoring herself—and maybe, just maybe, anchoring me too.
