Betting on the Brainiac: a Sweet Romantic Comedy

16. Chapter Sixteen

We’ve almost reached the table, and I lean over to tell her. “Madison, it’s—”

“Mission accomplished. Subject secured,” she says, and it’s loud enough for me to hear, but I’m not sure all the women did. She leans forward so they can hear her better. “Should I inspect the goods?”

The women cheer or whoop, and my eyes widen. Inspect the goo—

But Madison has already moved behind me before I can retreat. Her heels make her tall enough to rest her chin on my shoulder, but she uses the decreased gap to talk close enough to my ear that I can hear her.

“This is a routine I do for the ladies sometimes. It’s meant to be fun, but you do not have to do this. I’ll need to touch you in a flirty way, but it’s all for show. If I make you uncomfortable, flash a thumbs up, and the routine ends. You can bail now, and I’ll play it off in a fun way. Do you want to stay?”

The vibration of her voice raises goose bumps down my back and both my arms. This is insane, but “touch in a flirty way”? There’s no way I’m not watching this play out. When I tell her it’s me, she can start connecting the dots and see me as something besides her cat helper tenant.

I nod.

She steps back to squeeze both of my shoulders in a three-second massage before she pops her head around me to announce, “Excellent width, well-muscled.”

That’s true. I am. I’ve kept the lean swimmer’s build I developed in high school by running but also doing push-ups when I get stuck on a coding glitch. I find a lot of glitches.

She walks around my left side and squeezes my forearm, rests her hand on my sleeve, and announces, “Strong arms, good quality jacket, and he clearly dresses well.”

I’m glad I never took the blazer off.

She holds a hand toward my hair and tilts her head in question. May I?

I nod. I’m glad Matt made me keep my appointment at his sister’s salon yesterday. He’d told her to “clean up Shaggy-doo,” and she’d tsked when she’d seen me, informing me six months was too long between haircuts.

“Great hair,” Madison says as she runs her fingers lightly over one side. “Excellent cut, product but not overkill.”

Every strand that ripples beneath her touch sends a corresponding spark down my spine.

“Biceps!” one of the women calls.

“No, pecs,” another one says.

“I’ve got you covered, ladies,” Madison says. “If you have no objections?”

She’s looking at the eyeholes of my mask as she asks, but there’s not enough light for her to realize she’s not making actual eye contact. I give another nod, and there’s more hooting from the women, egging her on. I feel like a contestant on a cheap reality show, and . . . I don’t hate it.

Her hands come up and she drums her fingertips lightly against my chest, while she gives the women an exaggerated nod of approval. She’s being very intentional in the way she touches me. She’s keeping her contact gentle, as if she’s trying to either help me feel comfortable or make it clear that this isn’t meant to be seductive.

I’m playing a different game now, where the goal is to see how long it takes her to figure out it’s me.

I let out a half smile and open one side of my blazer, an invitation she accepts with the women rooting her on, sliding her hand across my chest. The upturn of her lips says she approves.

Like I said, I do a lot of pushups.

“Good pecs,” she tells the women, who cheer again. They’d cheer for anything vaguely upright and male at this point, so I don’t let it go to my head.

“Biceps!” one of them reminds Madison.

Leaning into the absurdity, I shrug out of my jacket and give them a gun show. Wolf whistles erupt, and one of the women raises a glass of champagne.

“I’ll drink to that,” she says.

Madison places her hand above my waist and guides me over to the space the women are making in the middle of their banquette for me. As soon as I’m seated, at least three different hands thrust shot glasses in my direction, urging me to drink.

I’m not a big drinker, but I slip the champagne flute out of the hand of the woman next to me, who smiles. I raise it in a silent toast to Madison, and one of the women calls, “To Madi,” which the other women echo. Madison does a small curtsy, the fringe on her dress swaying against her body.

I know it’s supposed to be a nod to flappers and the Gatsby’s theme, but it’s giving strong Latin ballroom vibes, and I remember her salsa solo. Maybe that’s what had sealed my doom with this woman.

She moves back to her other table, and I decide to stay put for a bit. I’ll let her see it’s me behind the mask before I go, but for now, I enjoy being able to openly watch her do her thing.

It’s too loud for conversation, but my new champagne friends seem happy enough to point out the action around them, dance their way to the railing to observe the crowd, or take another shot and laugh.

They rotate sitting next to me on either side, shout asking questions near my ear. “Are you single? My sister is single.” “Do you work out? You look like you work out.” “Can you dance? Let’s see it.”

I answer or give self-deprecating shrugs. I understand the appeal of masks. These women can imagine whatever expression they prefer on my face, and I’m happy to let them. It does most of the conversation work for me, leaving me free to watch Madison.

She glides and struts, crouches and towers, leans in with conspiratorial winks and smiles or dances out of reach when someone gets too handsy. None of it seems to bother her, and the men who reach for her only laugh when she spins away. She’s very good at what she does, and the longer I watch her, the more I notice. How she dances as she moves like she can’t help it. Like she wishes she was down on the floor. She swishes and turns as she pours for her VIPs, head, shoulders, hips all moving in time to the beat of each song.

A few times, she catches me looking at her. I want her to. She’s who I’m here for.

It’s beginning to feel like a performance for one as she checks to see if I’m still watching. I make it a point not to disappoint her. She gives a curve of her lips that’s not a smile but an acknowledgement of our silent conversation. She brushes her hair behind one shoulder, listening to a customer but keeping herself angled to see me, and I follow the path of her hand as it smooths her hair.

Old Oliver is returning, the one who got buried under work responsibilities and deadlines some time last year. The Oliver who resurfaced for a date or two to take out Ava, who could make himself present and focused on a beautiful woman. The Oliver who could play the flirting game, everything communicated through silent, small, intentional gestures.

I give her a subtle nod to let her know: yes, Madison, I see your silky hair and your smooth, golden shoulder. I know the exact shade of your skin in every kind of light now.

The corners of her mouth turn up a bit more before her gaze slides away from me to focus on her customer.

A minute later, she’s moving back to my table, but she doesn’t come straight to me. She wouldn’t. The old Oliver—nearly forgotten Oliver—remembers all the rules. All the strategy. How you only win if you both get what you want.

She pours shots to the women’s cheers, ignoring me completely, knowing she already has my attention. When she extends one to me like I’m any other customer, I shake my head, and she passes it off to one of the ladies, who accepts and tosses it back to more cheers.

In a couple of minutes, they’re going to be drunk past the point of being entertaining, and I’ll leave, but I want to soak in these last few minutes of Madison before I tell her who I am and watch how she tries to play it off. If I were a smart man, I’d let her, giving her the easy laugh and a friendly hug to put us back on the footing we’ve had since finding Tabitha.

But I don’t want to do that. I want her to see me, to realize it’s me she’s so drawn to now, not let her play it off.

I don’t want to be rational Oliver tonight. Not with the sound pushing in on me, pulsing from everywhere. Not with the sway of the fringe against her body looking as soft as her hair. Not with the energy rising from the thrumming mass on the dance floor. It’s the pulse of possibility. The masks make everyone brave, and the whole place is swollen with potential.

Madison makes her way down the row, pouring for the women who want it, my pulse beating faster as she gets closer to me. I shake my head when she offers a pour, and she barely pauses, only the tiniest smirk showing that there’s a different dynamic at play between us as she moves on.

Then she sets the bottle down and moves behind the banquette, and I’m tempted to turn and track her, but I don’t, letting my eyes drift across the open space above the dance floor to the other balcony, watching the people, guessing at the unspoken stories playing out in each conversation.

Like the silent one Madison and I are having.

Do you see me?

I do.

Do you like what you see?

I want to know more.

I feel the light press of hands on my shoulders. I don’t have to look; I already know that touch. Then her lips are beside my ear.

“Can I get you something?”

I turn and now her mouth is only inches from mine, but it’s a reminder, not an invitation. I’m here. I’m considering you as a possibility.

I keep my eyes on her mouth, and in the same low tone I say only, “Later.”

There will be no later. I’ve pushed this as far as I can without telling her it’s me. We’re at the point where she should get to decide for herself if she wants to keep the flirting up, knowing I’m behind the mask. I reach to slide it up, but she disappears.

I catch a glimpse of her heading toward the bar.

I press a kiss to the hand of the women on either side of me, who coo but pout at me for leaving, but I need to catch Madison before I leave. She disappears as a group of five or six people break off from the bar crowd and move between us, and by the time I get around them, she’s nowhere in sight. It’s not like she could have gotten far, and I’m guessing she went to the service elevator instead of navigating the congested stairs.

It’s on the other side of the bar, opposite from the restrooms and stairs to avoid bottlenecks. It’s cordoned off with a “staff only” sign to keep drunk dummies from joyriding in it.

I weave my way over as the deejay transitions into “Taki Taki,” and a cry goes up from the dance floor. The people around me keeping the beat with their heads or feet switch to their hips. I doubt most of them even realize they’ve done it, but it’s the only thing you can do when you hear a salsa beat.

The elevator is in a shadowy alcove, the lack of light giving strong “not a public space” vibes, but I catch a glint of white fringe past the velvet rope.

My mouth goes dry, and the hot buzzing sound fills my head as I get closer and watch Madison hit the salsa beats while she waits for the elevator. She’s giving herself fully to the rhythm, her hips roll with the salsa steps, looking even sharper now that she’s in heels with the fringe of her skirt emphasizing every thrust and twitch.

Like before, I’ve caught her in a moment purely for herself, but this time when she spins my way and pauses, I step over the rope, my hand extended. I’m done watching Madison dance by herself.

She dances a club salsa, which is good, because that’s how I’d learned it from a Miami girl during my study abroad semester in Spain. Miami Mila built on the country swing skills my sister made me and all my male cousins learn so we could dance with her friends at her sweet sixteen party.

We’d complained about it then, but we all owed her a big thank you, because girls love a guy who can lead.

Madison lifts her chin, her eyebrows rising above her mask, but she takes my hand like she’s ready to see if I can back up the invitation. As soon as her fingers curl over mine, I whip her into two fast spins before meeting her other hand and doing an eight count of salsa steps, smooth like I learned it. Madison relaxes into my lead.

It’s electric. Every touch, every glance, and I can’t believe she still hasn’t figured out it’s me. I give her another fast spin-and-a-half, this time ending it with her back against my front, my hand on the right side of her tight abdomen, her hand resting on top of mine as we move through the steps together. Her hair brushes against my nose and I’ve found her caramel smell.

She spins away from me again, dancing backward but drawing me toward her.

She stops when her back touches the wall beside the elevator. She’s taken us beyond the reach of the dance floor light spillover, and it’s too dim to make out her features as she angles her face up to mine. Her body still moves in a soft whisper of the salsa steps, all her attention on me. There is no mistaking her challenge as she leans against the wall.

There is me and there is Madison. There is the rise and fall of her chest after the intensity of our short salsa. There is the sound of my heartbeat, louder than the bass thumping the floor from below. This is the pause before the storm breaks, before the roller coaster swoops, before the bubble pops and breaks the spell. It is the moment before everything changes, but only if I close that gap.

I reach up to push back my mask, to let her make her choice fully, but with a barely perceptible ding the elevator arrives. Her small smile fades as reality intrudes. Her shoulders lift from the wall—hardly a hairsbreadth—and I’m moving toward her. Toward her before my brain can convince me not to, before common sense can intrude. I take the invitation Madison is offering to do what I’ve been dying to do since those lips first corrected my pronunciation of an Icelandic volcano.

I lean forward and press my hands to the wall on either side of her head, giving her plenty of room to escape as I lower my mouth to hers, but she doesn’t flinch, instead leaning back and tilting her chin up.

“Madison.” It’s a breath against her mouth, but I try.

Then she tugs on my lapels, and I give in.

It isn’t a sweet kiss, and I don’t want it to be. It’s hungry like I’ve been for weeks. It’s payback for every time her laugh has feathered down my spine like velvet, every time I’ve had the scent of caramel in my nose even when she’s back in her office, every time she’s held a kitten against her chest when I wanted to gently pull the floof away to press my hand against her heartbeat instead.

This is reckless. It’s the last thing I need, but now that her mouth is soft and pliant beneath mine, it’s the only thing that’s true. How good her lips feel, how good she feels even if only our mouths are touching.

She changes that, sliding her hand from my jacket to curl it around the back of my neck, pulling me closer as she parts those soft lips, and this time I don’t hesitate. I dip in and explore her, and she tastes like—

Madison.

She tastes like Madison.

But I don’t know if Madison wants Oliver to know that exact flavor, and I drag my mouth away, something she makes almost impossible with a throaty sound of protest.

I made her do that, and I smile.

“Cocky,” she says. “Can’t have that.” She goes up on her toes, her hand pressing against my nape for a kiss that takes me under even faster than the first, and I’m lost in the heat and velvet of her mouth. Too soon, she pulls away while pushing gently against my chest. “I’ve got work to do, but find me before you leave.”

She steps into the elevator and presses a button, smiling at me as the doors close, and I stand there, staring after her, motionless. Because she has blown my mind, and right now, I can’t even remember my own name.