"You're distracted." Sebastian pulled me back.
"Sorry."
"Thinking what?"
"Nothing."
He smiled, didn't push. Spun me once, twice. Floor filled, dresses and suits mingling. My gaze drifted over his shoulder, through the crowd.
Then I saw him.
At the floor's edge, by a pillar, wine in hand, face calm, but eyes sharp, fixed on me.
My step hitched with my heart.
"What?" Sebastian dipped his head.
"Nothing. Hot."
"Want air?"
"No." I inhaled, focused on steps. "Keep dancing."
Music shifted, slower, lights dimmed to sultry amber. Couples swapped, skirts whirled, shadows blended.
A hand reached from behind, grabbed mine. Another landed on my waist, heavier than Sebastian's. That heat—scorching, familiar, made me shudder.
Next second, an unyielding pull spun me, and I landed in arms scented with faint cologne.
"You've been avoiding me for a week." Ezio's voice was low.
"I haven't." I denied it fast.
"You have." He spun us, big steps, my skirt flaring. "No calls, no texts, ballet class on the dot and gone. Told Carmen you're busy—then bring another guy to the wedding."
"He's a friend from France."
"Friend?" His jaw tightened. "He doesn't look at you like a friend."
"Like what?"
He didn't answer. Spun us faster; I almost tripped, his hand clamped my waist, steadied me.
"How long you known him?"
"Five years."
"Five years." He repeated it, like chewing glass. "Leo knows him?"
"Yeah."
His grip tightened on my waist.
"He likes you," he said. "You don't see it?"
"Ezio, what gives you the right?"
His eyes shifted.
