‘There wasn’t much else to do in Elie. Pub or church. And I’m not a spiritual person.’
Finn dips in close, low voice brushing the shell of my ear. ‘Awright, pool shark. Time to channel that murder energy somewhere safer.’
I don’t move. ‘Like where?’
His smile comes cocked, loaded, and aimed at me. ‘Dance floor. Come on, before you start biting throats.’
My pulse still ricochets in my palms as Finn threads our fingers and steers me away. And I follow. Still charged and sparking, but I let him lead.
The dining room is dim, the table shoved to the side to make room, and full of people swaying to whatever remix is thumping from the Bluetooth speaker. Someone’s switched on fairy lights. Someone else spilled rum on the fishbone parquet. No one cares.
Finn faces me, one hand already on my waist.
‘Do you even dance?’ I squint up at him.
‘Darlin’…’ He eases closer. ‘I’m a flanker. I move my body in unexpected ways and have very flexible hips. It’s what I do for a living.’
I tip my head back, exasperated, but it’s useless. I’m already moving with him, body still humming from the pool kill. And he keeps grinning, as though he’s suspected it all along and had been waiting to see this version of me.
‘Better now? Got that out of your system, then?’ he asks.
‘Don’t push it. Pool is my favourite game,’ I say. But I’m smiling.
My hands find uncertain ground. One on his shoulder, the other grazing his side. The bass is low and slow. Remixed nineties R&B, sticky with suggestion. It swells and coils around the room. People move to the syrupy rhythm, hips rocking, bodies pressed too close. It’s roasting in here.
Finn doesn’t say anything. He just steps into me until we’re flush, the press of his chest against my dress a question he’s not ready to ask out loud. He smells like rumpled sheets, skin-warm citrus, and whatever alchemy turns boy into man, cocky into risky.
And then we move.
Not dancing, it’s more swaying. Gravity pulling us together molecule by molecule. He settles his hand lower, right at that boundary between safe and suggestive. My blood fizzes under his touch, and I don’t know if it’s the music or the temperature, but his inhale stalls halfway when I look up.
We’re not speaking, but something’s definitely happening. And I’m powerless to stop it.
I tighten my fingers on his shirt and catch the shadow of his jaw as he watches me. His forehead tips toward mine, close enough that I feel the heat of it before our skin meets. I’m not breathing right. Not blinking either. My body’s holding still so I don’t break the spell.
His nose brushes mine. Our mouths don’t touch, but they hover. And that spot – right at the curve between his nostril and his lip – floods me. A pure hit of him, dark and delicious. It lands at the back of my tongue and melts there. I could drink it. I could drown. He exhales, lips parting like he’s about to say something, but then…doesn’t. Instead, he leans in a fraction closer. My pulse skitters, and my whole body’s straining forward.
One more millimetre and we’d fall over the edge.
He pulls me in, slow but sure. The line disappears. We’re right there. The music fades, the heat dims, and there’s nothing but him. If he kisses me now, I won’t stop it.
I want him to.
I want to taste what he’s not saying. This – whatever this is turning into – isn’t all pretend anymore. There’s something else underneath, some form of kinship or recognition.
That’s the moment I know I’m in fucking trouble.
My brain slams the brakes and screams in warning. The room keeps pulsing around us. I can’t… I’m not ready. This was supposed to be a job, a favour, a performance. Not this.
Not…him.
Because I don’t do this. This isn’t safe. This isn’t smart.
This is how I fall.
And when I do, I won’t get up again.
So I step back like I’ve been burned. My hands drop and my body retreats before my brain can catch up.
