Her gaze slides away to survey the guests, judging how much food and drink they have, if people are having fun, if the tables need clearing, if some of the more family-oriented types are starting to get that harried look that means it’s time to go home to the kids now that it’s after eleven. She loses track of her calculations when she sees Cal hovering at the bar, a tall glass of something clear in his hand, wearing a black tux that makes his shoulders look like porn, watching Zac work the room much as she had been. He’s even wearing a similar smile, indulgent and a bit amused at the nonsense.
At least, until Cal yawns.
She pulls her phone out of her clutch and texts him: Across, slightly to your left.
When he feels the buzz, he pulls his phone out from the inside pocket in his jacket. His brow creases as he reads her words. Then he looks up and finds her, slipping his phone back in his pocket as he circles around the dance floor to meet her.
“Hello,” she says when he arrives, pleased to find that she’s legitimately happy to see him. He, on the other hand, seems tired. “How miserable are you, on a scale of 1 to shrieking in agony?”
He smiles. “It’s fine. It’s a gorgeous party, Anya. You’ve done a great job. It’s a little past my bedtime, that’s all.”
“Are you a morning person?” She narrows her eyes into a glare.
“Guilty.”
“Ugh. Disgusting. What kind of rock star prefers to be in bed by midnight?”
“The kind that’s over the age of thirty-five and gets up at six to go running.” His expression is wry but also pleased at the gentle teasing. He tips his head in Zac’s general direction. “Unlike some people, I don’t miss being in my twenties.”
“You don’t have to stay the whole time. All we have left is presents, and he can show them to you tomorrow.”
“But just think of the betrayal if I leave early on this particular day of blessing, the day of his birth,” Cal says, utterly deadpan.
She laughs, enjoying him. “Oh, you do know him well indeed. I should thank you for sparing me the histrionics.”
“You’re welcome.”
She has a martini glass resting on the top of the concrete wall and takes a sip now, sighing in pleasure. Perfect amount of vermouth. She plays with the plastic sword holding her olives and thinks of his discomfort in the basement the other day as she fumbled her way through complicated, intrusive questions. “I think I owe you an apology.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Not that I can remember.”
“I do.”
“All right.” He turns more toward her, his back going to the rest of the guests. He’s broad enough that the move gives her the illusion of privacy. It could very well only be the two of them now. When she doesn’t say anything, he prompts, “For what?”
“I don’t think I’m going to tell you. But you should know that I’m sorry all the same. I’ll do better in the future.”
His face does several complicated things, eventually settling on intrigued. “All right. Should I guess?”
She can’t think of anything less tempting than hearing him piece through a list of her potential faults. “No. But whatever I’ve done lately that you’ve been irritated or hurt by, know that I’m sorry.”
“There’s not a thing, Anya,” he murmurs. “Not a single thing.”
She licks her lips. “In the basement the other night—”
“That was my fault.” He takes a sip from his glass, and she gets the distinct impression it’s because he’s looking for a way to buy time, not because he’s thirsty. She wonders which part of the night he’s referring to—the conversation that revolved around his orientation and taste in partners or the moment where they stared at each other like they were both tempted to make a move. “I wasn’t expecting you to be so concerned about my bachelorhood. I should’ve said right off—I’m not particularly interested in dating anyone at the moment.”
Ah. He’s taking the easy way out. She lets the wave of disappointment pass, although she’s not shocked that he’s not going to address their brief minute of potent chemistry. He probably even means it when he says he’s not interested in dating, as far as her friends go. But she’s not sure he’d mean it if he knew what she’s really offering.
“I promise not to try to hook you up with any of my friends.” She words it carefully, knowing he won’t hear what she hasn’t said.
“Deal.”
They subside into an easy silence, and he turns away again, the shift of his shoulders giving the rest of the world back to her, watching the partygoers with her. Watching Zac entertain his thronging masses of friends. Or acquaintances. Zac’s only truly loved and trusted two people in his whole life, and they’re both as far away at the moment as the courtyard makes it possible to get.
The band strikes up a new song, a cover of “Skinny Love,” and she sighs. “I’ll tell you a secret if you promise to keep it to yourself.”
His attention snaps right to her. “Of course.”
“I wish Zac knew how to dance.”
“You mean in a way that doesn’t involve sex with invisible ghosts on stage?”
She chuckles. “Exactly so.” She taps the plastic sword against the lip of her glass. “My grandfather taught ballroom dancing for a while when I was young. I remember him dancing with me—well, if standing on a grown man’s feet counts.”
“It counts.”
“I liked to watch all the lovely people dancing nearby. It was always so beautiful. The way they moved together. Zac can dance, but it’s—well, like you said. Fucking invisible people. It’s not the same.”
He’s studying her now, his skin ruddy from the cool night air. He tips his head to one side, listening to the music, gauging it. “I can dance.”
She frowns at him. “I don’t want to boogie, Cal. I want a Cinderella dance. Do you know how to Cinderella dance?”
“If you mean can I waltz, the answer is yes.”
“Truly? There aren’t many men these days who can say that. How did you learn?”
“I took lessons as a teenager.”
She smirks. “Trying to get a girl?”
Sheepishness rises off him in waves. “Trying to keep a girl.”
The thought of it makes her soften. She can imagine it so well—a gawky, adolescent Cal, earnestly biting his lip and studying an older woman’s sensible shoes as he practices the box step. “Ah. High school sweetheart?”