For a first dance that never happened.
Her beautiful voice belts the lyrics, knocking the wind from my lungs. I teeter in the heels and recover quickly, locking my knees, grounding myself in the here and now.
I can’t dance to this. I don’t even want to hear it. But I will not break down.
Behind me, the suite is stocked with enough food and liquor to entertain twenty people. I head up the stairs, brushing a hand casually over Trace’s broad shoulder as I pass.
“Want a drink?” My smile is strained, forced. Maybe he won’t notice.
He shakes his head, squinting at me.
I keep moving, focused on the ice chest filled with beer. Rummaging through the amber bottles, I find a Bud Light and pop off the cap.
Warm fingers touch my spine, bared by the open back of my dress. “You don’t like this song?”
I hate it. I love it. I nod my head and guzzle the beer.
He lifts the bottle from my fingers and sets it aside. “What’s wrong?”
I hum a conflicted noise and set my gaze on the beer. “We can go whenever. Or stay. Whatever you want.”
“I asked you a question.” He grips my chin, forcing my eyes to his.
“It’s messy.” The tiered fringe on my ivory mini dress quivers violently, broadcasting my discomfort.
“If I didn’t want to know, I wouldn’t have asked.”
I ease my chin out of his grip and cross my arms. It’s a defensive posture, but I don’t feel safe with him. Not with my feelings.
He stands a foot taller than me, hands at his sides, shoulders back, and frown firmly in place. So confident, intimidating, and sexier than he has the right to be. He’s a curse, a blessing, and a second chance, like the black walls of desolation collapsing to reveal a glimpse of light. Being near him shakes me to the very roots of my soul.
He’s wearing another charcoal suit, sans the tie. A few buttons open at the neck. If I hadn’t seen his pajamas with my own eyes, I would’ve imagined him sleeping in a suit.
“Do you own a pair of jeans?” I ask.
His scowl deepens. “Answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”
“All right.” I reach around him for the beer and swallow a zealous gulp to flush the knot in my throat. “Cole was overseas for a year, and I spent that time planning our wedding, specifically our first dance.”
“To this song.”
“Yep.” I lift the beer to finish it off.
He intercepts it and pours it out. Then his arm comes around me, pulling my chest against his.
“I own four pairs of jeans.” His mouth moves against the top of my head, his breath fanning my hair. “Listen.” A pause of silence. “The song’s over.”
“Yeah.” I gaze up into his soft blue eyes, my hands falling on the placket of his white shirt.
“Are there any other songs you don’t want to hear?” he murmurs.
I shake my head.
“Then we’ll stay till the end.” He leads me back to the balcony, down to the front row, and closes in behind me at the railing.
His hands rest on my hips, and his brow lowers to the back of my head. Maybe he wants to stare down the length of my nude back to watch my ass move. Maybe he simply wants to keep me close.
Either way, it takes several songs before I loosen up enough to dance again, and when I do, I limit my movements to a gentle sway, remaining right where I am. Because I love the feel of his hands on me. Because his breath on my nape gives me comfort. Because the heat of his body reminds me what it feels like to be intimate with a man.
I thought I lost my one chance to experience this—the elusive, all-consuming high that can only be found in a romantic connection.
Maybe I just needed time.
Or the right person.
When he walks me to my front door, it’s after one in the morning. The August humidity lingers in the air, and a blanket of silence stretches over the moon-soaked street.
He reaches for my hand, holding it between us. “I had a nice evening.”
“Same. Thank you for taking me.”
As I pull away, I realize he’s not holding my hand. He’s gripping the ring on my finger, pinching it as if he wants to yank it off.
My chest tightens, and my brows pull together.
If you never take it off again, I’ll be the happiest man on the planet.
Cole broke his promise to me. He’s gone. I’m not beholden to the promise I made to him.
I straighten my fingers and slowly inch my hand back, away from the ring. But as the band slides over the first knuckle, Trace lets go.
My gaze jumps to his, but he’s already turning, striding back to the car where his driver waits.
Teasing and dodging. Connecting and missing. I swing right, and he steps left. I’m over the ballad of Trace Savoy.
“Hey, Trace?”
He pauses, glances over his shoulder.
“I just wanted to warn you.” I cock a hip.
“Yes?” He shifts to face me fully, hands clasped behind his back.
“I ordered this thing online called Her Ultimate Decoder, and it’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he says slowly.
“It’s guaranteed to decipher confusing cryptic men. Hundreds of five-star ratings on Amazon support the claim.” I fold my arms across my chest. “Your evasive maneuvers are about to be exposed. Any last words?”
The shadows might be playing tricks on me, but I swear there’s a grin on his face.
He drops his head, shakes it slightly, then turns away with an unmistakable smile in his voice. “See you tomorrow night, my tiny dancer.”
Chapter Fifteen
PRESENT
The next morning, my sister wakes me at the ungodly hour of nine o’clock with my niece and her husband, David, in tow. I mentioned the previous day that the brakes on the Midget are screeching, and now she’s here to meddle… I mean, fix it. Or rather, make David fix it.
With the car up on jacks in the driveway, he stretches on his back beneath it, grunting and clanking tools. Angel squats in the flowerbed, stabbing Rollie Pollie pillbugs with a stick, while Bree and I drink coffee on the loveseat under the old oak tree.
Bree knows every quarrelsome detail of my time spent with Trace Savoy. After catching her up on the concert, I’m anxious to hear her thoughts. But the slaughter going on behind me makes my skin crawl.
“Tell her to stop doing that,” I say to Bree.
“Angel, leave the bugs alone.”
The hem of my niece’s cute sundress drags through the dirt as she drives the stick down over and over, chanting, “Die. Die. Die.”
“They’re just bugs.” Bree tilts her head, studying her daughter. “That’s normal behavior, right?”
A first-grade teacher is asking me—someone who’s never around children—what I consider normal?
When Angel was born, I thought it was adorable that Bree named her after our family name, Angelo. But if I knew then what I know now, I would’ve given her The Book of Baby Names: The Demonology Edition.
“Yeah, there’s nothing frightening about her at all,” I say dryly.
Bree slumps back on the seat. “Okay, so when you called Trace out last night for being confusing and cryptic, what did he do?”