He laughed. “I think you see far too much.”
They turned in slow circles beneath the glittering ceiling. The room still buzzed with whispers, but Harmony heard only the soft rasp of his voice.
High above them on the mezzanine, shadows shifted near the rail. For a second, Harmony had the unnerving sense that someone was looking down on them, cataloging every brush of their hands. By the time she glanced up, all she saw was the sway of a chandelier.
“Tell me something, Harmony,” he murmured, leaning in close enough that she could feel his breath. “When you write about us . . . do you ever wonder if one of your characters reads it?”
She met his gaze, steady. “I’d hope they’d appreciate my honesty.”
His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Do you think you’re honest?”
She thought for a moment. “I’m observant. I write what I see, what I feel.” She paused and gave him a wicked grin. “But, sometimes the ordinary is boring, so I write what I think is better.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Better?”
“Sure. Life is boring. We wake up with bad breath and messy hair, do the dishes, feed the animals, go to work, exercise, cook dinner, do laundry. Rinse and repeat. Why wouldn’t a writer create a world without boundaries? Isn’t that what we all want? A world without rules?”
“Rules keep us alive. They keep us honest.”
“Some rules are meant to be broken, but we don’t get that in real life. That’s why we read. That’s why we write. We get to break all the rules consequence-free.”
“There are always consequences,” he warned.
“Not in my world,” she said, leaning a little closer, testing the very rules she’d just dismissed.
He mirrored her danger for danger. “I guess none of it matters if a person is dangerous enough.”
Their eyes locked. Attraction, yes—but something else, too. A warning neither of them seemed willing to heed.
His breath touched her ear, and a shiver ran down her spine. “You pretend you don’t like being seen, but I don’t think you want people to look away.”
“It’s not pretend,” she said. “Being seen means being bound.”
“You’ve been watching me since we got here,” he said, confident.
She smiled, not denying it. “Maybe I’m dissecting you . . . for research.”
“What have you learned?”
“That you’re dangerous . . . in many, many ways.”
“And you aren’t?” he pushed.
She didn’t answer. She simply smiled.
Their steps slowed. His thumb traced the edge of her hip through the fabric, enough to make her breath catch. Her fingers tightened at the back of his neck. The song didn’t end—it melted into another—slower, deeper, more sensual.
The band had switched to a rhythm for lovers. All around them, hands slid on hips, mouths brushed necks, and laughter turned into sighs. Everyone was looking for a bed, a way to silence the island’s drumbeat for a few hours. Avalon had turned molten.
Zach’s hand drifted upward, resting just below her ribs. “You’re playing with fire, Harmony.”
“Maybe it’s what I came here for. I like a good burn.”
He studied her, gaze dark. “Aren’t you afraid the island will burn you back?”
“It already has.”
Zach smiled. “Maybe we deserve each other.”
