She looks at my hand, then at my face, delight spreading across hers. “Are you asking me to dance?”
“No.”
Her smile grows.
I clear my throat. “I’m telling you we’re dancing.”
She puts her hand in mine, and I take her onto the floor before I can think better of it. I’m rough at this. Too big, too stiff, too aware of every place our bodies almost touch. Rosalyn doesn’t seem to care. She steps close and rests one hand on myshoulder while mine drops to her curvy waist. The moment her body comes against mine, the noise of the room drops away.
“You don’t dance,” she says.
“No.”
“But you’re dancing with me.”
“You looked as if you wanted to.”
Her expression softens. “I did.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
She looks down for a moment, but I catch her smile before she hides it. We move slowly, barely more than shifting in place, and it’s better than anything this godforsaken island has thrown at me. Her hand is warm in mine. Her waist is soft beneath my palm. Her body fits against me too well, and every protective, possessive part of me digs in deeper.
“You were staring during the ceremony,” she says.
“So were you,” I point out.
“I was being supportive of the couple.”
“Bullshit.”
A laugh slips out of her. “Fine. Maybe I looked once or twice.”
“You looked more than that.”
“So did you.”
“I’m not going to pretend I don’t want you.”
Her breath catches. The song keeps moving around us, but Rosalyn’s steps slow. “Barrett.”
“I know.” I rub my thumb along the back of her hand. “Wedding. People. Bad timing.”
“I didn’t say bad.”
My grip tightens at her waist. She feels it. I know she does, because her body shifts closer by one careful inch, and my restraint thins to almost nothing. The only thing that keeps me from lowering my mouth to hers right there is Noah laughing somewhere behind us, and the knowledge that Rosalyn deservesbetter than being dragged into gossip in the middle of her best friend’s reception.
So I dance with her. One song becomes two. Then the night keeps going, and people get louder, looser, happier. Mindy throws her bouquet. Noah smears cake near her mouth and pays for it when she kisses frosting onto his cheek. Rosalyn slips back into maid-of-honor mode when she’s needed, but she always returns to me. By the time the reception winds down and the last guests drift toward the elevators and beach paths, it feels understood that I’m walking her to her room.
The hallway is quiet around us, carpet silent under her bare feet. She carries her heels in one hand and walks beside me with her shoulder brushing my arm every few steps. I keep my pace slow for her, though my blood has been running hot for hours.
“I had fun tonight,” she says.
“You should. You worked hard enough.”
“So did you.”
“I stood there.”
