Page 24 of About Last Christmas
He quirks a brow. “No, as in you don’t think you look beautiful? Because you’re?—”
“No, as in I can’t trust anything you say. So if you call me beautiful, I’m going to assume I look like a cave troll.” I’m expecting people to approach me asking for a riddle even as we speak.
“My name’s Remington Orileo Mathis.”
I guess the more syllables you have, the wealthier you are. I eye his outstretched hand with suspicion. “My name’sstillGreta.” I weakly slip my fingers in his, and he engulfs them with a firm shake. I don’t understand why he didn’t tell me his real name to begin with. I’m about to call him on it when Leo eases closer.
“I see you’re here with Fletcher Thomas?”
“Yes.”
“Did you two recently meet?”
Weird question. “I’ve known him for years.”
“That so?” Leo rubs the turn of his lightly-stubbled jaw, his sights training on my date, who’s now chatting with the mayor. It’s like Fletcher is some sort of politician, the way he’s shaking hands and working the room. Leo’s gaze shifts to the left, and his eyes widen. “Greta?” My name’s a whispered plea on his lips.
I follow his line of vision. The women who huddled around him moments ago are approaching fast like a pack of she-wolves in stilettos.
“Will you dance with me?”
My gaze seeks out Fletcher. He’s still in deep conversation, and it doesn’t look like he’ll be free anytime soon. “I don’t know.” I expel an exaggerated sigh. “I just ate. Isn’t there some kind of rule about not dancing thirty minutes after food consumption?”
“That’s swimming. And it’s a myth.” He catches up my hand and presses it to his heart. “Please? I appeal to your mercy side.”
Let it be known Leo’s jacket is made from high-end Italian wool, and the seamstress in me wants to run my fingers all. over. it. I’m tempted to take him up on his original offer of lending it to me for warmth. I refrain, but I do allow my fingers to remain captive in his. “How do you know I don’t have a payback side?”
His mouth arcs in a smile, and, oh great, he brought his dimples along. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
“It’s not every day I see a grown man squirm.” Squirm is an exaggeration. He’s not running a finger under his collar or anything, but he does have a flair of apprehension in his eyes. “If I dance with you, you answer all my questions. Those are my terms.” Seeing this dance as a transactional agreement will keep my mind rooted in something else besides how my veins are thrumming with heat.
“Deal.” He wastes no time leading me to the dance floor.
The band starts playing “The Way You Look Tonight,” and I slide my hand into his as he curls his arm around my waist. The slower rhythm of the music is a stark contrast to the rapid tempo of my pulse. I blame Leo. When dancing with Fletcher, I didn’t need to remind myself to move or to force my intake of breaths. Just as Fletcher and Leo have opposing looks, they have different auras about them. Fletcher is Christmas night by the fire, steady and cozy with a gentle hum of contentment. Leo is New Year’s Eve, the seconds ticking till midnight, and the palpable thrill of something new and unpredictable. Each is alluring, though one has a slightly better edge.
“I prefer Leo.” He breaks the silence, forcing me to look into his eyes instead of at his tie. “It’s from my middle name.”
“Orileo, right?”
He nods. “Remington’s too stuffy. Like a politician or bank president. Someone who wears three-piece suits to bed.”
“And you don’t.” The mistake hits the second the words fly from my stupid lips. “I mean, ofcourse, you don’t. Well, not that I know what you wear to bed. I just mean … ugh.” I slide my eyes shut. It was only a matter of time before my awkwardness kicked in. I slowly lift my lashes to a fully grinning Leo. “Is there any way to strike what I said from your memory? Are you by any chance prone to bouts of amnesia?”
He makes a show of trying to think. “Not that I remember.” His cheesy teasing restores my conversational equilibrium.
“Leo does seem to fit you more.” I agree with his preference. It’s more down-to-earth.
His expression softens. “Most people in Silver Creek know me as Remington because that’s what I was called when I lived here.”
At freaking Ivy Hall! “With your grandparents?”
“Yeah, they’re both gone now. But I lived here during the summers or would come for weekends when not in prep school.”
His confession takes my mind off Titanic décor and onto something more human and devastating. “I’m sorry for your loss,” I say softly. I have no idea if his grandparents passed this year or a decade ago, but, as one whose grief is still fresh, I ache for him, nonetheless.
His throat bobs. “Thank you.”
I’m aware of every place he’s touching me. The way his strong fingers clasp around mine. The pressure of his hand on the bare skin of my back. I’m scrambling for what to say next, when my brain snags on something he just told me. “Did you say you went to preparatory school?”
