Guilt starts to spiral down my spine at how I’m abandoning my sisters, but I swallow it whole. “I’m not going there. I’m headed…someplace else.”
Which means that he’s clearly headed inside.
I spin around and take him in. Mr. Arrogant’s dressed in a black tuxedo, complete with bow tie. His clothes fit him immaculately, as if they’re tailor-made to his body. Golden cuff links set with round diamonds glint in the moonlight, catching my eye. This man drips wealth, whereas I drip runaway witch with a messy bun and a clingy lavender dress.
I take him in one more time and laugh.
He frowns. “What?”
“Why are you wearing that?”
He glances down. “What do you mean?”
“No one wears a black bow tie to a ball.”
“They don’t?”
“No. It’s white bow ties only.” I scrunch up my face and look at him. “What wizarding family are you from?”
He ignores my question and taps his bow tie, which turns white. “Better?”
“Ifyou’re going. Have fun.”
I wave him off and then stop. If he’s going to the ball, then why’s he outside? I gasp at the realization that?—
“You’re trying to run.”
He slips both hands into his pockets. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” There’s that bored voice again.
“Yes, you do.” I jab my finger into his chest. It’s confirmed, solid as marble. “That’s why you’re out here. You’re not planning to go inside.”
Well, I’m not having that. Blair’s entitled to meet every eligible bachelor wizard, even if theyarehideously arrogant.
“Maybe I came looking for you,” he says coolly.
My heart stutters to a stop.
Even though it’s an obvious lie, a thrill zips down my spine at the thought of him searching me out.
“Oh, very funny.” I laugh so loudly that the crickets stop chirping. Way to be smooth.
“Besides, if anyone’s leaving, it’s you.”
I scoff. “I’m getting air.”
“Oh, so that’s why you were running when you slammed into me,” he adds with an eye roll.
“I wasn’t runningaway,” I grumble.
“Prove it,” he challenges, his eyes twinkling with delight.
It’s tempting to march off, to leave his dare hanging in the air, but the superiority in his voice along with the memory of how he insisted I clean up my puke (which I would have done, if given a rag), make it impossible to leave.
“Fine.” I cross my arms. “I’ll prove that I’m not leaving the ball, which I have no reason to be doing anyway.”
He smirks and the urge to slap it off his face is nearly overpowering. “If you have no reason, then go back.”
“You with me,” I grind out.
