“With you?” he asks, his voice husky.
“I meant… in general,” I say quickly, then I add, because I’m done with the double-speak, “But yes.”
“I’m not sure that’s the best idea,” he says quietly.
I can’t help it. His response hurts me, and I make to pull back.
His fingers tighten around mine; his hand stays on my waist.
“Not because I don’t want to,” he says. “It would fuel the gossip mill, Olivia.”
“Why would it do that? I suspect I’ll be dancing with others,” I say.
His grip tightens again, and fire flashes through his eyes. “Not like this,” he says roughly. “I can’t stay neutral with you. If we dance together, everyone will know. I can’t let you be the subject of company gossip. People can be cruel.”
“What about you?” I ask.
“I’ll take some hits, but it won’t be the same,” he says. “You technically work for me, and you’re younger.”
We keep moving, and the mirrors shift into my view again. They catch a dozen angles. My bare shoulder, the sharp V of his lapel, the way my hand disappears in his. If I were another woman, and he were another man…
But I’m not another woman.
He lowers his voice. “I was wrong to make you carry the aftermath alone.”
My chest tightens. “You didn’t.”
“I did,” he says. “Even if I didn’t mean to.” He swallows again. “It wasn’t indifference. It’s the only way I know to keep people safe.”
“And yourself,” I say, because honesty is easier when you’re dressed up and pretending you’re someone else.
“And myself,” he concedes. No defense. Just admission.
I let the information mull in my mind. “I’m okay,” I say. “For what it’s worth.”
“It’s worth a lot,” he says quietly. His hand slides along the bare skin of my back, and I shiver.
The seamstress’s cart squeaks somewhere in the workroom. It’s still far, but the sound reminds me that we can’t dance the night away. I don’t want this to end. I also don’t know how to keep it without falling apart.
We turn again, slower. The hem does that little wave the seamstress wanted. The fabric flows and settles back on me softly.
“You’re going to cause trouble,” he says, almost smiling.
“Me?” I say. “I’m pure.”
“Liar,” he says, and it’s the fondest thing I’ve ever heard from him.
He shifts our grip. Our fingers fit better that way. He looks down at our hands as if he’s memorizing them. I register the small callus at the base of his thumb. I didn’t notice it before. It’s ridiculous that it movesme.
“The cuts…” I trail off, going red. “Are they better?”
He glances up, amusement and heat in his eyes. “They are.”
“Good,” I say. The word comes out thin and hoarse. I clear my throat. “I didn’t mean to—”
“You did,” he says, no judgment. “I liked it.”
The room tilts and nearly takes me with it. I swallow and hold tighter.
