I keep my voice low. “One dance, baby. They’re playing our song.”
“We don’t have a song,” she reminds me tightly.
“Sure, we do.” I take her hand and lead her onto the dance floor as the singer croons “Wicked Game” by Chris Isaak.
I rest one hand at her waist, feeling her warmth.
She flinches.
I pull her closer.
I glance around the room—diplomats, donors, politicians drifting from conversation to conversation like predators in designer shoes.
She’s tight like a drum, and the only reason she’s letting me lead is that she doesn’t want to make a scene. I know that. I’m taking advantage of it.
“I’ve missed you,” I tell her.
“I don’t want to do this,” she replies tightly. “Not here.”
I nuzzle her cheek. “You don’t want to do what?”
“Nick.” She stomps one foot on mine.
I swivel her, laughing. “You’re going to have to put a lot more power into that if you want me to lose my grip on you.”
She closes her eyes as if giving up, and dances with me. She is an elegant dancer.
But then everything about her is.
Her name, she told me, is Irish, like her mother. That was part of her dossier; what wasn’t was how her name has deep roots in Irish mythology and carries a sense of tradition, ethereal beauty, and ancient wisdom. She embodies all of that.
“Nick, what do you want?” she asks after a while. I hate how resigned she sounds, how tired.
“I want you, baby.”
She scoffs. “Do you have another op?” Her words drip with sarcasm. I deserve them.
“No op. I’m not lying anymore—or ever—to you. I’m here. As me. And I’m not going anywhere.”
She looks up at me, her beautiful, warm eyes wide. “What does that mean?”
“It means I’m going to fight for us.”
She gasps. “You’re making no sense.”
I twirl her, and then draw her back to me.
I want to kiss her so badly, taste those pouty lips that are glistening and swollen because she’s been biting them. It’s a nervous habit of hers. I want to soothe the small stings she must be feeling. I want to soothe the big ones in her heart and on her soul.
If only she’ll give me the chance.
“I want us, Enya. I want us to be a couple and?—”
“You don’t get to say these things,” she interrupts, shooting me a withering look.
“Maybe not.” I gently brush my lips against her forehead, and pull back to look at her. “But I’m saying them anyway.”
Her eyes flicker—pain, anger, maybe both. The sadness in them wounds me deeper than anything she could say. She loves me. And I hurt her.
