“Yes.” The single syllable drops between them like a guillotine blade.
Heather’s perfectly-painted smile falters, then turns brittle. She drains her glass, her knuckles white around the stem. Okay, I may not like her familiarity with him, but that was harsh.
Before I can admonish him, another woman approaches. This one is more polished and sober, eyeing Heather with slight disapproval before turning her attention to Thorne.
“Thorne Blackstone,” she says, her voice a practiced purr. “I thought that was you.”
What the hell. Did Thorne’s fan club—or more likely, harem—have a meeting tonight at the Tipsy?
“Meredith,” Thorne nods, even less encouraging than he was with Heather. “Good to see you.”
“It’s been ages,” she continues, stepping closer to him than casual conversation warrants. “Not since that charity gala your mother hosted last year.”
Lillianna leans closer and tells me. “Meredith has been trying to get her claws into my brother for years, but he’s thankfully smart enough to stay away from that social climber.”
I shouldn’t ask. I don’t need to know. Yet my mouth opens, and out falls, “What about Heather?”
The woman in question shifts her weight, glass tilting dangerously as she moves closer to Thorne’s other side. The two women are like opposing magnets with him caught in between, and sharp and unexpected pain twists in my chest at the sight.
Lillianna pauses, her gaze assessing me. She bites her lower lip, then sighs. “Office romance that shouldn’t have happened.”
Is that a warning or just information? Given our previous conversation and what she knows about Thorne and me, it’s possible.
Dave returns, handing me a fresh drink, his fingers brushing mine. Easy. Uncomplicated. Safe. I smile up at him and he smiles back, and I think, this is what normal looks like. This is what I should want.
Then Meredith laughs at something Thorne says, her hand finding his arm again. My stomach tightens. My fingers curl around my glass. Dave says my name, like it isn’t the first time he’s said it.
“Sorry, what did you say?”
"Dance with me?" Dave asks.
The band had shifted into a slower number. The saxophone winds sensually through the crowded room.
I take his hand. "Yes."
He leads me to the floor, finding a space near the stage where the lights are low and the crowd is loose. He's a good dancer. His hand settles at my waist and I settle into the music.
Yes, this. This is fine. This is good.
His thumb moves slightly, just a small shift in his grip, and my body registers with humiliating clarity that it isn't the right hand.
I smile at something he says. I think I respond. He laughs, so I must have.
The saxophone winds through the room and Dave's cologne is warm and pleasant and completely forgettable and I hate myself a little for noticing that.
He says my name and I realize it isn't the first time.
“Sorry.”
Dave tilts his head. "Where'd you go?"
I squeeze his hand. "I'm here."
But my skin is waiting for something it has no business waiting for. And no amount of trying is going to change that.
The air behind me changes before I hear him.
"Mind if I cut in?" Thorne's voice is as smooth as aged bourbon, but with the burn of high proof beneath it.
