Page 51
Her eyes flick up to mine, mischief lighting her face. “Is this the part where you dip me like they do in the movies?”
I tighten my grip and brace my palm at the small of her back, guiding her into a dramatic, sweeping dip to draw a little yelp of laughter out of her.
I pull her upright, and she lands breathless against my chest, her arms looping behind my neck. “Okay, wow. Color me impressed,” she says.
“You doubted me?”
She grins up at me. She’s so close I can count the freckles on her nose. “I doubted you would ever willingly dance in public, period.”
“Had to prove a point,” I say, letting my thumb trace the line of her spine. My jaw clenches. “Also, Micah was making eyes at you.”
She laughs loud enough that a few nearby guests glance our way. “Jealous, Sinclair?”
Her voice is all sugar and spark, but there’s a question she’s not asking underneath it, too. I could roll my eyes and say something gruff to steer us back into safer territory.
But I don’t.
I let the truth sit heavy between us, unspoken but obvious, carved into the space where her body presses against mine.
“Maybe.”
Her gaze moves over my face, stopping at my eyes, and for a second I think about claiming her lips. Then the music shifts to something faster, and someone bumps into us with a tipsy apology.
Whitley laughs again and takes the smallest step back. Her heat still lingers on my skin, and I know I’m not walking away from this girl untouched.
Not even close.
fifteen
. . .
Whitley
My feet are seconds from mutiny.
I’m halfway down the winding path leading to the cottage, my bouquet long forgotten somewhere between the sparkler send-off and the champagne toasts, and I’m sweating in places that should not be sweating in formal attire. The chill of the Colorado night’s got nothing on me.
The last of the music fades behind me, muffled laughter drifting from the reception, a memory already folding into the night. Violet and Rowan just left in a flurry of confetti, all smiles and tangled hands, and I’m thrilled for them. I really am.
But right now? I’m a hot and horny mess, my feet hurt on a level I can’t even begin to express, and Beau Sinclair just showed up beside me looking like sin in a suit. His sleeves are rolled up, tie loosened, and the unreadable look in his eyes makes me feel like I’ve been set on fire and told to hold still.
“Need help?” he asks, voice low, amused.
“Nope.” I hobble another few steps. “I’m totally fine. Just a minor case of my toes dying a slow, painful death.”
He stops walking. “Whitley.”
I stop too, mostly because I have to. My feet are throbbing, my dress is sticking to places it shouldn’t.
He just looks at me. And I swear, if he smirks.
“I’m taking those,” he says, pointing to my shoes.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
He kneels, slipping the heels from my feet. And then—god help me—one arm slides behind my knees, the other around my back, and lifts me clean off the ground as if I weigh nothing.
