I catch the momentary tightening of Logan’s smile. It’s the same tell Lucas has when he’s been outmaneuvered. Like father, like son in some ways, though Lucas would hate the comparison.
“Indeed. You’ve found yourself quite the match, Lucas,” Logan says, his tone making it unclear whether this is praise or accusation.
“I have,” Lucas agrees as his arm possessively slides around my waist.
The orchestra begins a waltz, and Lucas seizes the opportunity. “If you’ll excuse us, Governor, Dad, I believe they’re playing our song.”
“We have a song?” I whisper as he guides me to the dance floor.
“We do now,” he murmurs back, pulling me into his arms.
I follow his lead easily, and as our bodies sync with the rhythm, I’m struck by how naturally we move together. The memory of his touch from last night flashes through my mind, and I fight back a blush.
“Your father doesn’t approve of me,” I say, meeting his eyes directly.
“My father doesn’t approve of anyone who isn’t useful to his ambitions,” he replies. “But don’t let him fool you. He’s impressed. He just hates that he can’t control the narrative.”
“Sounds familiar,” I say with a knowing smile.
“What does that mean?”
“Just that the apple didn’t fall as far from the tree as you might think.” I soften my expression, tracing small circles on the back of his neck with my fingers. “You’re both control freaks who hate it when things don’t go according to plan.”
“I am nothing like my father,” he protests, though without heat.
“Not in the ways that matter,” I agree, “but in some of the surface stuff? The need to manage perceptions, the strategic thinking, the inability to admit when you’re wrong? Pure Logan Carmichael.”
I say it lightly, affectionately. It’s odd how quickly I’ve come to understand Lucas’s mannerisms, his tells, the subtleways he operates. Maybe it’s the journalist in me, trained to observe and analyze, or maybe it’s because of how close we’ve become.
“If I’m so like him, why do you put up with me?” he asks, his curiosity evident in his voice.
I pretend to consider this, enjoying the slight uncertainty in his expression. “You’re much better looking,” I decide. “And you have this annoying habit of actually caring about people, not just using them.”
“High praise indeed.”
“Don’t let it go to your head,” I warn, unable to keep from smiling.
We dance in comfortable silence, turning slowly beneath the twinkling lights on the dance floor. I’m hyperaware of his hand at the small of my back, his fingers laced with mine, the subtle scent of his cologne. After last night and feeling his mouth on me, his hands exploring my body with such focused attention, every touch between us carries new weight, new memory, and I want more.
“Everyone’s watching us,” I murmur, noticing the glances directed our way.
“Let them,” he replies with surprising intensity. “They’re just jealous.”
“Of what?”
He pulls back just enough to look into my eyes. “That I get to dance with the most beautiful, brilliant woman in the room.”
I roll my eyes, but pleasure warms my chest. “Smooth, Carmichael. Very smooth.”
“I’ve been told I have my moments.”
As we continue to dance, his arms steady around me, and I find myself counting the minutes until this event ends, until we can return to our room and this dress can join last night’s clothes on the floor. Below that anticipation runs something deeper, something more frightening: the growing certainty that six months with Lucas Carmichael will never be enough.
twenty-six
. . .
Lucas
