Page 48 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

My grip tightens at her waist before I even think about it. Not much. Just enough. Enough to tell her I’m here, that I hear her, that?—

I shake the thought away. “Whiskey’s overrated.”

Her lips curve. “I’ll take your word for it.”

The music swells around us, and for a moment, it’s just us. No curious glances from across the room.

No expectations, no past, no future.

Just this. Just her.

She lets out a breath, something softer than usual, and says, “Did I mention it’s pretty interesting seeing you like this?”

“You like seeing me waltzing?”

“I mean, letting go.”

I don’t react. Not outwardly. But something in my chest tightens, just enough to make me notice.

She doesn’t press. Just stays there, close, her hand warm against my shoulder. Like it belongs there. Like I belong there.

It’s a dangerous thought. One I shouldn’t entertain.

Her phone buzzes.

I glance down at her, and Ariana groans. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m about to ruin the moment.”

I smirk, but there’s something else there now, something I don’t have the energy to analyze. “Are you?”

She hesitates. That’s new.

Then her phone buzzes again, and just like that, the moment is over.

She pulls back, but her hand lingers at my sleeve. Just for a second. Just long enough to make me feel the absence of her when she finally steps away.

“I have to handle this,” she says, not quite meeting my eyes.

“That’s a shame.”

And for the first time in a long time, I mean it.

"I should?—“

"Check it," I sigh, releasing her. "Before you spontaneously combust from PR withdrawal."

She pulls out her phone, then freezes.

"Oh no."

"What?"

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