She tilts her head. “I thought we were here to be seen.”
“We’re doing both.”
Evan drains his glass. “Go. I’ll hold down the fort.” He scoots out of the booth, giving Tania room to exit.
I stand and extend a hand. Tania stares at it for half a second too long before taking it.
Her palm is warm, and her small fingers curl around mine. I pull her up and don’t let go.
Downstairs, the crowd parts enough to let us through. I find a space near the center where the lights hit hardest, and the music drowns out thought.
Tania stands in front of me, uncertain.
I step closer. “Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
I raise a brow.
Her mouth twitches. “Maybe I’m a little tense.”
“Why?”
“Because everyone’s watching.”
I glance around. She’s right. Eyes are tracking us. Phones are out, and cameras are angled our direction. She’s not used to the attention.
We are.
The Locke name gets recognized. Our faces show up in business sections, society pages, and tabloid gossip.
“Let them watch,” I tell her.
“Right. The arrangement.”
“The arrangement,” I confirm.
The beat drops, bass vibrates through the floor, and Tania moves. Not tentative. Not uncertain. She has rhythm, and I don’t want to take my eyes off of her.
Her hips sway, her arms are loose, and her head tips back. Gorgeous red hair slides over her bare shoulders.
I forget about the cameras.
My hands find her waist, and her body doesn’t tense this time. She leans in.
Her back presses against my chest. Even in heels, she’s small against me. I’m six-foot-three, and the top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. My fingers spread over her hips, thumbs brushing fabric that’s too thin to be decent. Her head falls back against my chest, and I smell whatever perfume she’s wearing mixed with shampoo and skin.
The crowd presses closer. Bodies everywhere. Heat everywhere.
Tania turns in my arms, facing me now, and her hands land on my shoulders. She has to reach up. I’m looking down at her, and she’s looking up at me, and the lack of space between us feels deliberate.
Close enough that I feel her breathing. Close enough that moving another inch would cross a line.
I don’t move.
Neither does she.
The song changes. Slower. Heavier. The kind of rhythm that makes touching feel inevitable.
