“Twace!” Willow lifts up her arms when she sees me. “Up! Up!”
Grinning, I hand Romy my glass and pick up Willow, her poofy pink dress billowing around my arms. “Hello, beautiful. I love your dress.”
“Fank you.”
“Do you remember Romy?”
Willow turns to Romy solemnly. “No.”
Romy smiles. “That’s okay. Did your mom do your hair like that?”
It’s all up in complicated curls.
“No.” Willow shakes her head, the curls bobbing. “The haiwdwesser did it.”
“Ah. It’s gorgeous.”
“The girls all had a spa day,” Sofia says, her hands on Ruby’s shoulders. “We got our hair and nails done.”
“Your dress is the color of a ruby,” Romy says to Ruby.
“That’s my name!”
Romy grins. “Really?”
She knew that. I shoot her an appreciative glance.
“Your dress is wed too,” Willow says.
“It is.”
“Twace, I want some of dat.” Willow points at the glasses Romy’s holding.
“That’s for big girls,” I say.
“I am a big girl!”
“Okay, let’s go see.” With Willow on my hip, I hold out a hand to Ruby, and the three of us stroll over to the bar. They have apple juice, so I get the bartender to pour champagne flutes with half juice and half 7-Up, then hand one to each little girl.
They take delicate sips, clutching their wineglasses, and we make our way back to the others.
Sofia gives me a look.
“It’s fine,” I say.
“People will think I let my kids get drunk,” she mutters.
Romy crouches and does a little toast with the girls, gently tapping glasses, and they beam.
Soon we’re moving back into the ballroom for dinner, the chairs having been rearranged around round tables. Seating is assigned, and Romy and I find we’re seated together near the head table, with Joe and Cassie, Felise and Magan and their dates. Dean’s parents are next to us with some of his family.
“I didn’t know you’re so good with kids,” Romy murmurs to me, setting her napkin on her lap.
“I didn’t know you are.”
“I love kids. I never had much to do with them,” she says wistfully. “One more thing that was missing, with no family. That’s why I teach art classes at the gallery.”
“Well, you’ve got family now.”
She smiles, and the happiness glowing in her eyes tugs at something deep inside me. “I do.”
15
Romy
Watching Trace with those two little girls damn near made my ovaries burst. They clearly adore him, and he was so sweet and gentle with them, making them feel important with their glasses of “champagne.”
They interrupted our little flirt fest, but that was probably good. Trace has made it clear that what happened two weeks ago can’t happen again. Except why was he being so risqué? Getting me all hot and horny for nothing… damn.
We eat an amazing dinner—butternut squash bisque, a salad with bleu cheese and caramelized walnuts, and the main course of thyme-and-honey chicken stuffed with mushrooms and leeks. Red and white wines flow freely, which is why it was good that Trace and I came by Uber. The speeches entertain the family with lots of inside jokes that I don’t get, but that’s okay; the warm, loving ambience in the room is what matters.
My heart feels full at being part of this family. They’re witches, but they’re good people. Except for Dallas. The more I get to know him, the less I like him. Which is unfortunate because he’s my sister’s boyfriend. My mom said I was ridiculous when I formed fast impressions about people, but the way he talks and the things he says give me the feeling he’s full of shit. When he said “I only listen to music on vinyl,” I had to close my eyes to keep them from rolling back in my head.
Felise’s friend Cam is nice though. He nearly choked on his drink at the vinyl comment.
Then it’s time to dance. The happy couple takes the floor first, dancing to “Stay with Me” by Sam Smith. When the music changes to “Love on Top” by Beyoncé, others join them, leaving Trace and I alone at the table.
He cocks an eyebrow and holds out his hand.
He’s only doing this because it looks stupid with the two of us sitting here. So I go along with it. I rise from my chair and follow him onto the dance floor.
He looks so good; seeing him in a suit damn near had my panties falling off when he arrived at my place. His tailored jacket fits his shoulders and tapers to his narrow waist, and the pants are slim fitting. The light gray color emphasizes his tanned complexion and dark hair, the knot of his silky blue tie tucked up against the pure white collar of his shirt.
We danced once before. There was no music that night, but we moved together as if we heard the same melody. I place my hand on his shoulder, big and solid beneath the fabric of his suit, and he clasps my other hand in his. And we dance.
The beat of the song is lively, and Trace surprises me by showing some flare in his movements, all the while staring into my eyes. I’m liquefying. Slowly dissolving, floating, surrounded by candlelight and pale flowers and Trace’s seductive scent. We remain on the dance floor for another slow song, then the DJ picks up the tempo with a Jason Derulo song.
With a questioning look, Trace releases me. I move to the faster beat, and he matches my movements, hands on my hips. I laugh out loud at the joy of dancing, lifting my arms in the air and swinging my hips as Trace watches.
Finally we return to the table. I pick up a glass of water and down it, then Trace tops up my wineglass and hands it to me. “Thanks. That was fun.”
“Trace, you were dancing!” Felise plops into her chair at the table.
He rolls his eyes. “What about it?”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you dance since Mom forced you to practice waltzing with us. Also, you were laughing earlier.”
“Oh, come on. I laugh all the time.”
“You really don’t.”
I shoot him a look. It’s true, he’s pretty serious, but I’ve seen him laugh lots.
He shrugs.
Felise’s grandma, Joan, appears. Er, wait. She’s my grandma too. “Come dance with me, Trace. I learned some moves at hip-hop class.”
She’s got to be in her seventies, but she’s full of energy. Trace lets her drag him back to the dance floor, and I watch them with amusement. “Grandma’s a better dancer than I am,” I say to Felise.
She laughs. “Not true. I saw you out there.” She leans closer. “Thanks for getting Trace up dancing.”
“I, uh…”
“And what the hell did you say to him that made him laugh like that?”
“I don’t even remember.”
“It must have been good. And it’s nice to see Trace happy.”
I’m not sure if she’s poking to get more information or if she’s completely guileless. “Why isn’t he happy?”
“He’s happy. He’s just… Well, he’s never really gotten over losing his family.” This time she seems more inclined to spill the tea on Trace. “He still feels responsible for it. He tried for years to figure out if he could fix it, but he never could, and it really bothers him. I think it’s made him a little bitter.”