Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 73225 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 366(@200wpm)___ 293(@250wpm)___ 244(@300wpm)
Conversations around me fade to static. I set the glass down, missing the coaster completely, and cross the marble floor before my brain signs the permission slip.
She spots me halfway, lips curving into a smile equal parts shy and wicked. “Is it too much?” she whispers when I reach her.
“It might be lethal,” I answer, and her laugh spills across my nerves like warm brandy.
I offer my arm. “Dance with me before the room finds its tongue.”
She slips her hand into the crook of my elbow and we weave through throngs of jewel-tones to the parquet square where a string quartet is easing into a Sinatra standard. I fold her into my hold, my right palm against the small of her back, left curling her fingers, and the rest of the crowd blurs. Her perfume—something subtle, hints of jasmine—distracts every tactical algorithm in my head.
“You clean up well, Mr. Hawke,” she says, eyes sparkling.
“Occupational hazard,” I murmur, guiding her into a slow sway. “You, on the other hand, just set off the sprinkler system in my brain.”
A surprised flush blooms high on her cheeks. “Compliments? From the stoic bodyguard? Must be a full moon.”
“Maybe I’m trying to sell the engagement,” I tease. “Public displays of besotted admiration and all that.”
“Mission accomplished,” she breathes, and I nearly forget which foot to lead with.
We glide through the first verse, trading small talk calibrated for eavesdroppers. How’s my favorite fiancée this evening? Over the moon, darling. I can feel eyes on us—curiosity, envy, suspicion—but I keep my focus tight. Every time Charlotte’s dress brushes my shin, a zing of heat shoots up my spine.
Halfway through the second song she tilts her head. “Tactical question: do you always dance like you’ve done this a thousand times?”
“Military balls,” I admit. “Turns out waltz steps impress generals’ wives.”
“Well, color me impressed.”
“And you? Professional gala-goer?”
“Practically born on a dance floor,” she says with a rueful chuckle. “Comes with the Lane pedigree—learn to foxtrot before you can parallel-park.”
She spins under my raised arm, red fabric flaring like a solar flare, then settles back against me, chest to chest. Her heartbeat flutters through thin layers of silk and worsted wool. Mine answers. This is dangerous. But I tighten my hold anyway. Just for the duration of one more chorus.
On the final note I feel a shadow fall across us. Wade. His smile is as tight as piano wire.
“Charlotte, you look… ravishing.” His gaze cuts to our joined hands. “Asher.”
I rest a protective hand on Charlotte’s waist. “Evening, Sinclair.”
He forces a laugh meant to sound urbane; it lands brittle. “Didn’t realize the guest list included security detail.”
“Where she goes, I go,” I say, keeping my tone pleasant. Back off pulses unsaid between us.
Charlotte steps in before the testosterone fumes slip a gear. “Wade, you remember my fiancé.” It’s a personal jab. Obviously he remembers me, but it makes me proud of her for using me like this. She smiles, and then drapes her arm across my chest.
Her eyes flick up to mine. I lower my head and brush a soft kiss across her temple. Wade’s jaw ticks.
“Enjoy the evening,” I say, steering Charlotte toward the far side of the floor before Sinclair can retort.
When we’re clear she exhales. “He looked ready to blow a gasket.”
“That was the idea.” But adrenaline lingers in my blood like static. “You okay?”
“Better than okay.” She squeezes my hand, and we drift to the bar for hydration. I order a sparkling water for her and a soda water for me. I scan again: no obvious tails, though Wade’s eyes burn holes from across the room.
The quartet segues into a slow violin piece. Couples sway under chandelier prisms. Charlotte leans in, voice low. “Thank you… for existing right now.”
I smile—can’t help it. “Anytime.”
Another song begins, “Fly Me to the Moon.” An impulse kicks my ribs. I set my glass down, pull her gently back to the floor. She slips into my arms like we’ve practiced for years. Laughter bubbles at her lips; then her expression softens, the distance between us dissolving. Midway through the chorus, she tilts her head, eyes blinking up at me.
Screw professional distance. I lower my mouth to hers.
The kiss is deliberate, unhurried. It’s public yet private in its connection. Her lips are soft, tasting faintly of citrus and champagne. The ballroom hum fades and even the bowstrings mute. I angle my head, brushing a thumb along her jaw, deepening just enough to say mine without crossing the PG-13 line. She sighs, hands sliding to my shoulders.
We part after three heartbeats—four, maybe—and her eyes are storm-bright. Around us applause breaks for the band’s graceful finish, masking any gossiping gasps. I rest my forehead to hers for one stolen second, whispering, “Selling the story.”
“Best endorsement money can’t buy,” she murmurs, cheeks flushed rose beneath chandelier light.