“Yep. Sharon Mills. We danced together for the first time at the freshman breakfast and I stepped on her toes. A lot, actually. I figured by the time senior prom rolled around I owed her better.”
“One girl for all four years?”
He shrugs. “She was the only one I wanted.”
“Did you love her?”
“Very much. I thought we’d get married eventually. After college, maybe.” Cal clears his throat. “I suppose you find that predictable.”
She considers. “Perhaps. But it’s also sweet.” She shouldn’t ask, but she can’t help being curious. “What happened there?”
“I told her that instead of going to the University of Nebraska–Lincoln with her, I wanted to move to LA. I asked her to come with me, but she said no. I think... I think she thought my music was a phase that I would outgrow. A lot of guys back home would talk about leaving, following their dreams, and most of them never stepped foot outside the city limits. I guess she didn’t have a lot of reason to believe I’d be an exception. But I was, and she wasn’t particularly interested in a long-distance relationship. She got married a year or so after I left to a guy we’d gone to high school with.”
“I’m sorry.” She winces. “Ouch.”
“It was two decades ago,” he says dryly. “I’m fully recovered.”
“Has there been anyone serious since then?” It’s not information that’ll help her decide whether he’d be amenable to having sex with his best friend’s wife, but she can’t stop the question from tumbling out.
“Not really. You know how it goes. A lot of near-misses, so you get six months here, a year there before you realize each relationship’s not gonna work. Trying to find someone to make the long haul with can be a process. Especially in my sort of situation.”
She knows what he’s alluding to—the fact that being rich and famous tends to bring the crazies out of the woodwork. But she doesn’t think that’s the actual problem. “You mean because you’re someone who struggles to open up.”
His gaze flickers over her face. “Yeah. That’s what I mean.”
She raises one eyebrow. “And those people who made it six months or a year? All women?”
Even with the night only barely kept at bay by the small party lights hanging overhead, she can tell he’s flushing. “There might have been a couple of—nothing too serious. You know. Dates. With one guy there was...you know...not, like, sex...but... Jesus...” He trails off, looking panicked, and she laughs, taking his hand to give it a friendly squeeze. He’s adorable.
“I understand. A gentleman doesn’t kiss and tell.”
“Yes. Exactly. That’s...that’s what I was going for. Not telling. Not that there was much to...ah, hell.”
She laughs at him some more, charmed, warmed by how flustered he is. He grins back, rueful and embarrassed and so handsome that a rich little twist of pleasure sparks in her belly. “Well, I guess your credentials check out. So yes, please, Cal, I’d love to dance with you.”
He hums a note of assent and tugs her martini glass out of her fingers. He sets both of their glasses on the wall, then crouches. She stares down at him, taken aback, but he’s picking up her red stilettos, extending one in the type of old-fashioned chivalric gesture she’s only ever seen in movies.
She slides her foot into the first, then stands there with her heart pounding as he slides the leather through the tiny buckle for her. She shifts her weight to lift her bare foot as he picks up the other shoe, and then almost loses her balance as the first heel sinks deep into the soft, uneven earth. She catches herself on his shoulder, finds the muscle immovable beneath the thick fabric of his tuxedo jacket. Anya isn’t a small woman—she’s five foot eleven, for crying out loud—but her weight doesn’t rock him so much as a millimeter. His hand cups her other ankle, and his palm is big and warm on her skin, guiding her to lift her foot and helping her settle her heel in the shoe. He has the fingers of a musician, deft, strong, certain. She shivers.
He stands again, calm, like he hasn’t knocked her knees out from under her. He takes her hand and leads her toward the dance floor and she follows dumbly. When they find a spot, he turns to face her, settling his hand on her lower back, stepping closer. For a heartbeat, she thinks he’ll tug their bodies together. But of course he doesn’t. Cal wouldn’t hold her like that, not his best friend’s wife.
It’s just a dance. It’s something men do with their daughters, for fuck’s sake. It’s perfectly appropriate. Especially the way Cal does it. Cal does everything appropriately. His touch is impersonal, his gaze distant, his arms careful to keep space between them, even as they begin to move.
And he was right. Cal can fucking dance.
It’s like floating. It’s no work at all to follow him in the steps. With barely more than the pressure of his fingers and the angle of his body, he has them twirling in slow revolutions across the dance floor, smooth as silk. She doesn’t have to do anything but go where he guides her. She stares at him in dumbfounded shock, but he doesn’t seem insulted. If anything, he seems amused.
They’ve barely been dancing for a minute when the music ends. Cal brings them to a halt and raises his eyebrows, clearly wondering if half a dance is enough, and without thinking, she tightens her hand on his, holding him in place. He nods, and then the next song starts.
It’s “Kissing You” by Des’ree, and she has no idea if that’s a gift from God or Satan. She isn’t sure she could’ve planned this on purpose if she tried. Her gaze flashes to Cal’s face, checking to see if he’s familiar with the song, wondering whether he’ll bull his way through it or try to excuse himself.
She can see the second of consternation in Cal’s eyes when he recognizes the melody. She can also see the exact moment he decides there’s no graceful way out of it. He takes a deep breath. She does too. He steps toward her again, and she helplessly follows as the music swells. The singer has a good voice for the song. The air throbs, heavy with longing.
Anya’s legs feel wobbly beneath her. She’s fully aroused, wet enough that she could fuck him right now, and it’s been such a slow, gradual slide into desire that she didn’t even notice. She’s thrown enough by the realization that she stumbles. In classic Cal style, he rescues her instantly, adjusting to her misstep, his arms strong enough to steady her as she catches up. His hand on the small of her back tightens, bringing them closer together. He lets her lean on him, uses his body to provide her with a foundation. She exhales, shaky, and she can’t make herself pull back. Can’t keep herself from taking the ground he’s given her and then some. Her breasts brush his chest, and his jaw tightens.