She fit against me in a way that made rational thought difficult. Her head came to my shoulder. Her fingers curled against my jacket. I could feel her heartbeat through the layers between us—steady, quickening.
Is she acting?
The question wouldn't leave me alone. Every time she leaned closer, every time her thumb traced a pattern on my shoulder, every time she looked up at me with warmth I couldn't parse—I wondered. Speculated. Searched for evidence one way or the other.
She was good at this. At performing intimacy, at selling the story of us. For all I knew, every gesture was calibrated for Richard Ashford's benefit, for the benefit of this room full of architects and developers who'd carry gossip back to their offices.
If this is performance, she deserves an Academy Award.
If it's not...
I pulled her closer. She came willingly, her head resting against my shoulder, her body relaxing into mine with a trust that made my throat tight.
Memory: the last time I'd danced with Jessica. A firm holiday party, a year before she'd filed for divorce. I'd put my arms around my wife and she'd heldherself an inch away, body stiff, eyes scanning the room for more interesting company.
"People are watching, Callum," she'd said when I'd tried to pull her closer. "Don't make it weird."
I'd danced with her at a distance, performing the motions of a functioning marriage while the reality crumbled between us.
Willow wasn't holding herself away. Willow was pressed against me—warm and solid and present in a way Jessica hadn't been in years. In a way I'd forgotten people could be.
The contrast hit me. Not as a thought, but as a physical sensation. The difference between tolerance and welcome. Between obligation and want.
"You're quiet," Willow murmured against my shoulder.
"Thinking."
"About what?"
About how I've spent eight years convincing myself I wasn't capable of this. About how the last woman I held on a dance floor counted the minutes until she could escape. About how your head on my shoulder has undone a decade of careful emotional fortification.
"About how bad I am at dancing," I said.
"Liar." She pulled back enough to look at me. “You’re as bad at dancing as you are in the kitchen. I'mstarting to believe there isn't anything you aren't just naturally good at.”
I chuckled. “You flatter me.”
“Not really, just being honest.”
The music shifted—a slower number, the kind that invited people to draw closer. Around us, couples swayed. The city glittered beyond the windows. And Willow Monroe looked at me with an openness that touched me.
"Callum."
"Yes?"
"I'm not acting."
My breath caught. Every muscle in my body went still.
"I should tell you that," she continued. "In case you were wondering. In case you thought—" She paused. "I'm not performing. Not anymore. Not with you."
I stared at her. Searched her face for evidence of deception and found none. Just Willow, raw and honest, admitting to a vulnerability I'd been too afraid to voice myself.
"Neither am I," I managed. "For the record."
Her smile broke through—real, radiant, completely unselfconscious. "Good. That would've been embarrassing otherwise."
"Extremely."
