“Next time,” I said, my voice shaky as we resumed our dance, “warn me before you go full-onDancing with the Stars.”
He laughed, his body vibrating under my hands. “Where’s the fun in that?”
I smiled. For the rest of the song, I let myself be held, swaying in the dark with someone who made me feel like the past didn’t have to dictate the future. The song ended, and reality edged in. But for those few minutes, I’d forgotten what I was supposed to be afraid of.
And when Dean stared back at me, I saw it—he’d forgotten, too.
“Let’s get a drink.” I nodded toward the tiki bar, desperate for a change of scenery, for something to do with my hands.
“Good idea,” he said, his voice a little rough. He didn’t let go immediately. Instead, his hand slid from my waist to the small of my back, a warm, guiding pressure as we walked away from the dance floor together. The gesture was so natural, so proprietary, it made my heart thump even harder.
We didn’t speak on the way to the bar. We didn’t have to. The air between us was electric, charged with everythingthat had just happened and everything that might happen next.
The bartender took one look at our dazed expressions and reached for the rum. “Two Hurricanes?”
“Make mine a double.” I gripped the bamboo counter for support.
Dean stood beside me, so close our arms brushed. He didn’t look at me, just stared straight ahead at the rows of liquor bottles, but I could feel the tension radiating off him. He hadn’t been acting. I was sure of it.
The drinks arrived. I took a long, desperate swallow of mine, the rum scorching a path down my throat. It did nothing to calm the frantic energy buzzing under my skin. The memory of his lips—gentle, then demanding, thenwow—was the kind of kiss that made you forget your own name, never mind the rules of a fake relationship.
I risked a glance at him. He was studying me, his expression unreadable in the flickering torchlight. He hadn’t touched his drink.
“So,” he said, his voice low. “That was… convincing.”
“It was a tactical decision.” I tried to reclaim the safety of our joke.
His mouth twitched into a half-smile, but his eyes were serious. “Right. Tactical.” He finally picked up his glass, swirling the dark liquid. “We should probably get back out there. Keep up appearances.”
He was offering me an out, a chance to pretend that kiss hadn’t just rewired my entire nervous system. I could take it. We could go back to the dance floor, back to the safety of the charade.
But as the party hummed behind us, I made a silent vow—no more pretending, not to myself. If I was going to riskgetting hurt, it might as well be for something that made me feel this alive.
I met his gaze and held it. “Or we could just stay here for a minute. Alone.”
He watched me for a long beat, searching my face. Then, a smile spread across his lips—a small, private thing just for us.
Not a challenge. An invitation.
“Yeah.” His shoulders relaxed at last. “I’d like that.”
He turned back to the bar, our shoulders touching. We drank together, the joy of the party a distant hum. For the first time in forever, I didn’t feel like a visitor in my own life. I felt wildly, dangerously out of control. It was the scariest, most hopeful feeling in the world.
