Page 88 of Snowed In
Over and over, they approach with the same questions and the same comments, some a little more pointed than others. But I am my mother’s daughter, and our chat earlier reminded me what I need to do. With each question, I get better at answering what I want to and brushing off what I don’t. Christian charms them and then I swoop in, reminding them to bid, marveling at the auctions. Mam even joins us for the first little while but leaves us to it when she sees we’re able to handle ourselves. And we are. More than able.
Christian plays the part perfectly.
He laughs and talks and listens to those I introduce him to. He smiles at them.
He smiles at me.
And I can forgive him for not falling to his knees at the sight of my dress with how well he pretends to be utterly and completely captivated by my mere presence. He doesn’t stop touching me for the rest of the evening. His hand on my back, my arm, my elbow. Like he knows I need it. Because I do. The little ball of anxiety doesn’t go away, but it eases bit by bit until I even start to enjoy myself, and when the band takes to the stage, and the dancing starts, he pulls me to the floor without hesitation.
We’re still there thirty minutes later, taking only short breaks to catch our breath. Maybe he realizes we don’t have to talk to anyone if we’re moving. Maybe he just likes it. He certainly acts like he does, spinning me around like we’re the only two people there. Like this night is just for us.
During a slower song, one of Mam’s old golf friends strikes up a conversation beside us and as Christian chats easily about greens and irons and fairways, I use the opportunity to study him from the corner of my eye, admiring all the angles and edges to his face that would have been severe on anyone else, but on him seem to fit perfectly, softened by his intelligent eyes and quick smile.
He laughs at a joke, his crow’s-feet creasing in a way that already feels familiar to me, and expertly moves us away, his hold on my body comfortable and sure, like we’ve done this a dozen times before.
And just for a moment, just for one fairy-tale second, I wish we had.
I wish this was real.
All of it.
As if feeling the weight of my attention, his gaze snaps back to me, and my heart skips a beat, launching into something new. Something sweet and delicate that I’ve never felt before.
The band keeps playing, but our steps slow as his grip on my hip tightens, and I wonder if he can feel my pulse racing beneath my skin.
“You okay?” he murmurs, dropping his voice so no one else can hear. I nod, and it must be convincing because something playful sparks in his eye. “You want to do our signature move?”
“What’s our—” I break off in a gasp, delighted as he dips me until my hair nearly brushes the floor. My head spins as he pulls me back up, and…iron tablets, Megan, take your iron tablets.
“You dizzy?” he asks, as he twirls me around. And I am. I am, but I like it. I like it so much that I ask him to do it again, and he happily obliges.
“Okay, stop,” I plead even as I laugh. “Stop, stop, stop.” A bead of sweat trickles down the small of my back, and I know my face is flushed. “Air,” I demand.
“You want some champagne?”
“Of course, I want champagne,” I say, and with a swish of my dress, Christian brings me to a halt. He pauses there on the edge of the dancefloor, gazing down at me as he lets me catch my breath. I’m aware that we’re being watched. The other couples look our way curiously, indulgently, and I couldn’t care a bit. I’m smiling so wide, my cheeks hurt, but I can’t seem to stop. And I don’t want to. “You’re a good dancer,” I tell him, and though he starts to respond, no words come out.
He’s staring at me now, but for once I don’t mind being stared at.
The silence stretches, and Christian’s brow furrows for an instant before he abruptly steps back, his hand dropping mine like it’s on fire.
“Two minutes,” he says, and he waits for me to nod before disappearing into the crowd. I feel oddly bereft once he’s gone and linger awkwardly, before making the mistake of meeting someone’s eye. Not wanting to rehash the same conversation for the hundredth time, I turn before they can approach, aiming for the patio doors on the other side of the room.
It’s quieter out here. Colder too.
My skin prickles with goosebumps as soon as the fresh air hits me, the sweat cooling irritably on my skin. But it’s refreshing, and I can already feel my head beginning to clear as I step farther onto the patio, looking out at the dark gardens of the hotel.
I wonder if I can tempt Christian into exploring them with me. There’s a playground around here somewhere, and I freaking love a swing set. A bottle of champagne, talking the rest of the night away under the stars. Just the thought of it makes me smile. I’ll need to get my coat, but—
“Megan?”
“That was quick!” I say, turning eagerly. But it’s not Christian behind me.
It’s Isaac.
He moves closer, stopping a short distance away as though he’s not sure what’s appropriate anymore. “Hey.”
“Hi.” I lick my dry lips, glancing over his shoulder for Christian but seeing only the backs of other guests instead. “I didn’t think you were coming tonight.”
