"You okay, Liz?"
"Fine. Just being my usual clumsy self."
When his thumb strokes my knee, I dig my feet into my shoes, abandoning all pretense of being casual about this.
I cannot focus on the food. Cannot focus on the conversation happening around us—Maura talking about tomorrow's itinerary, Mom asking about our honeymoon plans (we don't have any because we're not really getting married, Mom, keep up), Ted making some joke nobody finds funny. Except Ted.
All I can focus on is Dean's hand on my knee, the heat of his thigh against mine, the way his fingers trace absent patterns onmy skin that make me want to crawl out of my chair … and onto his lap.
"Try this." Dean's fork appears in front of my mouth, some kind of seared scallop.
The fork slides into my mouth. I'm trying to focus on the flavor, but Dean's eyes are on my mouth, his hot gaze pinning me, and when I swallow, he tracks the movement of my throat.
Dinner continues in a haze of accumulated torture. His arm draped across the back of my chair, fingers brushing my bare shoulder. Leaning close to whisper comments that make me shiver—"Your sister's drunk," "Ted's checking out the bridesmaid," "Why are there fireball shots already?" Tucking hair behind my ear when it falls forward, his knuckles grazing my cheek.
To anyone watching, we're adorable. Newly engaged and unable to keep our hands off each other.
To me, it's exquisite torture.
By the time dinner ends and the music shifts to something slow and romantic, I'm an absolute mess. I want this over with, but also not yet.
Dean leads me to the floor and pulls me close, one hand settling at my waist, the other clasping mine. I rest my free hand on his shoulder and feel muscle ripple beneath the linen.
We've danced before. Weddings, parties, that one time in college when we went swing dancing on a dare. But never like this. Never with his hand splayed possessively on my lower back, never with barely any space between us, never while everyone watches and thinks we're in love.
"Relax," he says.
"I can't."
"We're engaged. We're supposed to look like we can't keep our hands off each other."
That phrase echoes in my head.Can't keep our hands off each other.That's the problem. I can't. Don't want to. Would happily drown in touching him if it wouldn't ruin everything.
We sway. Barely moving. Just existing in this small space where the rest of the world fades. It's only us and the music, his hand burns through my dress, and my heart tries to beat its way out of my chest.
Dean's eyes drop to my mouth. "You know what would probably cement our story?"
"W-what?"
"A kiss. Not a peck. A real one."
"Here? With everyone watching?"
"No better place to rest their doubts."
"O-okay?"
Dean chuckles. "Liz, you should not look like you're headed to the guillotine."
"I don't look like that."
"Oh yeah? Your eyes are wild, y' face, no color—," waving his open palm in front of my face, for emphasis.
That breaks through my nervousness, and I smack his chest. "You should never tell a woman she doesn't look her best."
"I'm not. You just look like you've seen a ghost."
"Okay, fine."
