My pulse thrums in my ankles, my wrists, the hollow of my throat. Emily’s digital dare echoes: One adventure. I drain the rest of the champagne in a single gulp and place my hand in his.
He tugs me forward, that bad-boy confidence wrapped in gentleman’s packaging. His hand fits my waist, not tentative, but claiming space like he has the right. I inhale sharply—cognac, cedar, and fresh danger flood my senses.
“You’re trouble,” I whisper as we join the rotating universe of masks and crystal.
He smirks.
He leads me among the turning constellations of masked revelers. His palm is warm, callused in a way that surprises me. The thought distracts me long enough that I stumble. Instantly his other arm slides around my waist, centering me.
“Relax,” he murmurs. “It’s just one reckless night.”
My gaze darts up. “Have you been eavesdropping on my internal monologue, sir?”
Another short laugh. “Lucky guess. Hold steady.”
He guides our steps with practiced grace, yet there’s a looseness, like he’s fighting against strict choreography, choosing freedom instead. The sea of dancers spins under chandeliers that throw honeyed light across marble and silk. For the first time tonight, I forget my shoes are instruments of torture.
“So,” he says as we sweep past a trio of women in peacock feathers, “let me guess one more thing about you.”
I lift my chin. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”
“Because you interest me,” he says with a grin. “And I think you’re someone who reads.”
My heart skips a beat. “Lots of people read.”
He tips his head. “Sure. But you read-read. Like… the kind of reading that ruins other people for you. Book hangovers. Emotional devastation. Annotated margins and comfort re-reads. That kind.”
I blink. Because he’s not wrong. In fact, he just described my Tuesday night.
“And let me guess again,” he adds, a little slower now. “You’ve got a favorite hero. One who sets the standard. Ruins real men forever.”
That makes me laugh. “You think I’ve got a literary crush list?”
“Oh, Iknowyou do,” he says, stepping a little closer. “So come on. Who is he?”
I hesitate. Because it’s silly, isn’t it? To admit that the most romantic men I’ve known have all been fictional? That none of the dates I’ve been on have ever felt as thrilling as a well-written slow burn?
Still, something about the way this stranger is looking at me—cocky and curious, but also kind—makes me want to answer.
“I mean…” I shrug. “It depends on the mood.”
He perks up. “Multiple options. I knew it.”
“Sometimes I want brooding. Other times I want charm. Or angst. Or competence.”
I am a bit self-conscious now that I realize we’ve only talked about me so far. I cross my arms. “Alright then. What about you? Who’syourfavorite literary hero?”
He pretends to think. “The one who gets the girl in the end.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s vague.”
“And strategic,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Keeps me eligible.”
He pauses, thinking. “But I guess I like my classic heroes. I’m traditional like that.”
I huff. “You don’t seem the type.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot.”
