Page 65 of Make Me Yours
I glanced at her, curious. “You’re a hard one to read, you know that?”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Still counseling?”
“Always,” she said with a small shrug. “These days, I call it life coaching. People like it better when you make it sound like a partnership.”
That made sense. But there was something about her tone—something more than clinical, as if she saw through people, maybe even into them.
The ceremony wrapped up with applause, laughter, and the clink of champagne glasses. The crowd started to loosen, music drifting up from a small band near the deck. I turned to Monique.
“Guess that’s my cue to grab a beer,” I said. “Can I get you one?”
“Sure,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “But only if you promise to tell me why you keep looking over there.”
I froze mid-step. “Looking where?”
She tilted her head toward Emma, who was laughing with Lilly near the baby stroller. “There.”
I groaned. “You really don’t miss a thing, do you?”
“Not when it’s that obvious.”
I chuckled and handed her a cold bottle. “Alright, Coach. Since you’re so observant, tell me how to get her to stop pretending I don’t exist.”
“Easy,” she said, taking a sip. “Make her notice you again.”
“Pretty sure that ship sailed after I got my bike.”
“Then surprise her.”
“Like what? Juggle fire? Ride a bull through the buffet?”
She laughed, low and melodic. “No. Something simpler. The band’s about to play. Ask me to dance.”
I blinked. “You?”
She shrugged. “I’ve been told I lead well.”
I grinned. “You’ve also been told you’re insane, right?”
“Frequently. But it usually works out in my favor.”
When the music started—something old and bluesy, the kind you feel more than hear—I took her hand. Her grip was light, confident. The crowd parted just enough for us to move to the center of the lawn.
Monique danced like she’d been doing it her whole life. Smooth, unhurried. She talked while we moved, her words floating just under the music.
“You want her to see you, Easton,” she said. “But first, you need to decide if you’re ready to be seen.”
I laughed softly. “That’s supposed to be therapy talk?”
“It’s supposed to be the truth.”
I twirled her once, catching the faintest smile at the corner of her lips. When I looked up again, Emma was standing near the food tables, watching us. She tried to look casual, but her fingers tightened on the edge of her glass.
Monique noticed too. “There it is,” she murmured. “See what happens when you take a risk?”
“You call this a risk?”
