I search the hall for my uncle and find him sitting with a bunch of other guys from town. Our eyes meet, but then his gaze slides over to Grace as though he can read my thoughts, then back to me.
What’s with everyone knowing exactly what I’m thinking about as if it’s written on my forehead?
I force myself to look away from the knowing look in his eyes and back to the girl on the dance floor. My palms itch at the memory of us dancing together at the diner—my hands on her hips, her head on my chest—
My heart speeds up as I watch her move.
She dances as though she’s made from wind and water, effortlessly and gracefully. I trail her with my gaze, my body following her as though she’s a magnet and I don’t have a choice but to obey the pull. She twirls and shimmies her shoulders, throwing her head back and laughing.
Her beautiful curls are secured on top of her head in a loose ponytail, swaying as she moves. I feel the urge to run my fingers through them just to see if they feel as soft as I’ve imagined on many occasions.
I have a feeling given time, Grace could be the kind of woman men make sacrifices for. She has the power to make a man forget his dreams and help her pursue hers just to see her happy. Just to be near her.
I want to be near her.
The thought washes over me, making me catch my breath. Well, I’ll just have to practice self-control much harder.
I head down the hallway leading to the washrooms just as the song comes to an end. I walk out a few minutes later, intending to go back to my table. Laughter reaches me from across the room. It sounds light and fresh, like the beginning of spring. I inhale briefly to calm my nerves, and before I know what’s happening, my feet are guiding me toward the laugh with one goal in mind.
Grace is standing at the bar with her back braced on the counter. I’d recognize her laughter among a thousand voices.
Her head is thrown back again, eyes closed. She’s smiling like she knows something others don’t. I’d give my left arm to know what she’s thinking right now.
I watch her, unable to turn away from the sight. She’s too addictive. Too fascinating.
Then she opens her eyes and tilts her head toward me.
“Hey, Father Callan,” she greets, a playful glint in her eyes.
I find myself chuckling. “I haven’t earned that title yet.”
“Sol,” she murmurs, then makes a sound in the back of her throat, almost a purr, sending heat straight to my dick. Is she doing this on purpose? Who is this person? It’s like she has morphed overnight from a sullen teen to a tempting seductress.
Sucking in a deep breath, I watch her watching me with interest. She lowers her gaze, a rare smile touching her lips.
“Want a drink?”
Sol shoves his hands inside his black pants and nods. “Yeah. Sure.” His voice, usually calm and deep, sounds rough, as if he just woke up from a deep sleep. He clears his throat and says, “Water, please.”
“Water? At a wedding?” I tsk and sigh. “Did you know that drinking water at a wedding is considered bad luck for the newlyweds?”
His eyes go wide at that. “Reall—” He cuts himself off and scratches the back of his head, mirroring my teasing smile. “Good one, Grace.”
God, I love teasing him. He looks awkwardly adorable when he’s flustered.
I laugh. “So juice?”
He smirks. “Yeah, thanks.”
After I place our order for two cranberry juices, we both fall silent, watching the bartender prepare our drinks. As soon as they’re ready, we leave the bar area. I twirl the glass in my hand, scanning the room to avoid staring at Sol for too long.
I still don’t know what to make of his abrupt departure last Wednesday. Maybe I did or said something to upset him. I hadn’t been the friendliest when he first approached me that day, but I thought after my apology and our dance at Mom’s cheering-up party, he and I were on the same page.
Apparently, I was wrong.
“So.” I face him and lift the glass. “Cheers to the newlyweds.”
“Hear, hear.” He touches his glass to mine, then tips it into his mouth.
I sip from my glass, taking the time to study him from under my lashes. I inhale sharply when I realize he’s staring at me.
Busted.
Color floods his cheeks, and his lips tilt upward at the corners as he pushes back the locks of hair from his forehead.
“So what’s your verdict?” he asks.
“Cute.”
His eyebrows dip thoughtfully. “You think I’m cute?”
I shrug. “I think so, yeah.”
He exhales loudly. “Wow.”
Judging by his expression, I can tell Solomon Callan has no idea the effect his striking sapphire eyes have on people, including me.
“Cute.” He shakes his head and chuckles, then drinks from his glass.
“Is it so hard to believe?”
“You’re the first person to ever tell me that.”
“Seriously?” My eyes widen in disbelief.
He shrugs, dropping his gaze to his dress shoes, and murmurs, “Thanks.”
He asks after a beat, “Want to sit down?” He points at four empty seats a few feet away.
I nod, heading that way, and feel him press his palm on my lower back. My body stiffens involuntarily. Not because his touch is unpleasant. Quite the contrary. It’s unexpected and rather nice.
“Sorry.” He draws his hand back immediately and shoves it inside his pocket.
“It’s fine,” I say, sitting down. “I was just surprised.”
He sits down across from me and sets his glass on the table. His leg bounces as he watches the crowd and his finger taps, taps, taps a beat on his thigh.
“So what happened the other night? At the diner, I mean? You left in a hurry.”
He opens his mouth to say something, then shakes his head and shuts it again, pressing his lips firmly together. “I was exhausted, I guess.”
“Oh,” I mutter, then take a sip of my juice. “I wondered if—”
“You broke your promise not to corrupt me too much?” He smirks.
I slap a hand over my eyes and laugh, embarrassed. “Yes. I wasn’t exactly sober.” My hand falls away from my face, and I hold it out to him. “I don’t want to mess up this chance at friendship. So . . .” I trail off and wait patiently, hopefully, for him to meet me halfway.
His big hand engulfs mine in a firm handshake. My body jolts at the contact, and every part of me comes alive. I’m mesmerized by the veins on his forearm under the rosary bracelet, disappearing beneath the rolled-up sleeves of his white button-down shirt.
His gaze slides to our hands, moving up to rove over my face and settling on my lips. His mouth parts subtly, the tip of his tongue peeking out to lick his bottom lip.
Oh my God. How sexy is that!
“We’re cool,” he mumbles, probably not aware of his thumb brushing my knuckles, his touch feather soft.
I gasp and try to cover it by biting the inside of my cheek, but the goosebumps on my arms betray me.
He jerks upright, taking his hand with him. He blinks several times as though he’s coming out of a haze. “Shit. I’m sorry.”
“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”
His leg bounces faster, the air between us suddenly crackling with tension. The kind of tension that has my stomach dipping deliciously and my thighs tingling.