“Oh,somany things,” I say, smiling broadly at our unimpressed and vaguely bored new friends. “Where do I begin—its constitutional monarchy? Its rich history of social welfare, including universal healthcare and higher education? Or its royal motto,För Sverige—i tiden?”
Grant chokes on his drink. I flash him a sweet little smile and tell himIt’s called Google, bitchwith my eyes.
The gentleman next to me tuts his approval and says, “Ah, a fellow Nordophile! Vilken är din favoritstad i Sverige?”
“Indeed,” I say, clinking my champagne glass against his. “Indeed.”
“Excuse us,” says Grant, barely holding in his laughter as he leads me away by the elbow.
In moments like these, when we’re playing games and cracking each other up, I can’t seem to remember what I was so worried about before. Yes, I know we’re tangled in an impossible web of fiction and reality. And yes, seeing Grant with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his bowtie untied, I’ve given up denying the palpable attraction I feel toward him. But right now, it doesn’t feel so dangerous. It just feels good to be around him. It’sfun. There’s no pressure, no anxiety.
Until he looks thoughtfully toward the center of the room, where a string quartet has just set up, and says, “We should dance.”
The floor in front of the musicians is open; all the guests are either seated at the surrounding tables or promenading around the galleries, no doubt deciding whether a Mondrian would clash with their antique jacquard drapes.
I hesitate. “I don’t think—”
“No one else is dancing,” he says, his voice low. “We can stand out without making too big a scene.”
He’s unfortunately right. Doing harmless things that Simply Aren’t Done seems a decent way to get labeledindecentby this crowd.
Reluctantly, I take his proffered hand, and we walk toward the open floor. Nerves sparkle through me as I try to mentally brush up on the actualhowof dancing. When was the last time I danced with someone—reallydanced, not at a club or a bar or in some state of inebriation? Homecoming, half my life ago?
I doubt my rusty high school moves will cut it at a black-tie gala for the upper echelons of London society. I’m going to have to admit to Grant that I don’t know what I’m doing, and I hate that. I don’t want him to have to teach me or show me the way. I don’t want to need him.
But all he does is lift my right hand in his, gently placing myleft up around his shoulder before encircling my back with his arm, pulling me close. And then we’re swaying to the music, and it seems like maybe I did know how to do this, after all.
I work to steady my breath, to calm my pulse. “Are people looking?” I ask, a lame attempt at distraction. Grant subtly moves his head to get a better look at the crowd, brushing against my hair. I feel immediate chills where it rustles along my neck.
“A few,” he says, so quietly, in my ear.
“Anyone look like they want to hack us to bits?”
“And I had almost forgotten why we were here,” he groans.
“Stay on task, Hoffman.”
He dips his head slightly, his eyes fixed on mine. I can make out every variation in their rich brown, like counting rings in a tree. “That’s Beaumont to you, Mrs. Beaumont.”
I have an instinct to say something snarky, but I come up blank. I don’t think we’re headed for imaginary divorce anymore. Not with the way we’re looking at each other, the way I can’t tell his heartbeat from my own.
“Uh-oh. Incoming,” he says, and my whole body tenses. His fingers lightly tap my back. “Relax. I just meant more people are coming to dance.”
My breath whooshes out of me. “Jesus, Grant. Maybe don’t lead withuh-oh, incomingwhen there’s a serial killer in our midst.”
“Let me rephrase, then,” he says. “Uh-oh, we are no longer the only ones snogging the dance floor.”
I pause in confusion, then pull back to look at him.
“What do you thinksnoggingmeans?”
Grant’s brow—surprise of the century—furrows.
“Like … hogging, right? But in a British way. What Lesley said.”
I’m truly not trying to make fun, but I can’t help but laugh. There’s also a tiny spark of satisfaction at the fact that I, for once, know something he doesn’t.
Grant’s mouth quirks up in a smile. “Have we not been snogging the dance floor this whole time?”
