48. Michael
Michael
Ireenter the ballroom and glance at our table.
Katie isn’t in her seat while the rest of them carry on.
My attention shifts, scanning the room until it lands in the corner, where she’s sitting at a small table, laughing.
Rosalia sits beside her. I leave her alone for fifteen minutes, and she ends up with the one person who shouldn’t be anywhere near her.
I take a breath and cross the room. Rosalia sees me first, her posture tightening. Katie turns a second later, smiling.
“Hi,” she says. “Look who I met.”
“I see that.”
“Michael,” Rosalia says.
“Rosalia.” I nod once, then look at Katie and reach for her hand.
She hesitates. “But we were talking about this author we both really like.”
I don’t respond. I just wait.
Rosalia stands. “We’ll talk later.”
“Okay,” Katie says. “I’ll call you.”
My jaw sets. Of course, they exchanged phone numbers. I take Katie’s arm as we walk and pull her closer.
“You know who that was, right?”
“I do. I mean I didn’t at first, but yeah.”
“And that didn’t stop you.”
She looks up at me. “Is there a problem, Michael?”
Reign it in, Michael. Do not piss off the tiny raccoon.
“No. Just surprised.”
“She’s nice. And funny. And interesting,” Katie says, narrowing her eyes at me.
She nearly walks straight into someone, but I catch her at the waist and guide her around them.
“You exchanged phone numbers?”
“Yeah. We’re going to meet for lunch next week and then go to the bookstore.”
Dear God.
I let out a quiet breath and force a smile. “That’s great.”
I pull her chair out when we get back to the table. She smiles and sits down as I push it forward. I sit down next to her, settling my hand in her lap under the table. She laces her fingers with mine.
“Oh, Michael. You’re back,” Teresa says. “I think Katie left us so she wouldn’t have to answer any more questions.”
Katie’s cheeks turn red beside me.
“Can you blame her?” I say. “You old biddies are relentless.”
The women laugh, not the least bit offended, and their husbands grunt in agreement.
“We were all surprised that Katie was a bartender,” Maria Caruso says from across the table.
I turn to her slowly. I’m not sure who the fuck she thinks she’s speaking to.
“She’s also an accomplished English teacher,” I say. “And a talented painter.”
“Oh. Yes, yes. I didn’t mean any harm by it,” she says quickly.
I don’t respond. If these women weren’t friends of my mother’s, I wouldn’t be entertaining this bullshit. Katie’s hand tightens around mine.
“I work hard at a lot of different things,” she says. “Michael appreciates that about me.”
The table goes quiet. The expectation settles in—waiting to see if I correct her, if I draw the line. I don’t. I lift my hand and brush a curl away from her face, letting my touch linger for a second before I smile.
The rest of the night settles into place. No one else crosses a line. Dinner comes, then dessert. No one approaches me unless they’re friends of my parents. The rest know better.
After the speeches, the dancing begins. Couples start gathering on the floor, falling into something structured. The kind of dancing I was raised on.
“So,” Katie leans in, her voice a whisper. “We’re not twerking tonight.”
I let out a quiet laugh, but it still carries enough to pull a few looks. She smiles and drops her forehead to my shoulder for a second.
“No. There will be no twerking,” I murmur.
“That’s too bad,” she says. “It led to a pretty interesting night.”
My jaw tightens at that. I shift closer instead, my hand settling at her thigh under the table, just above her knee.
“Doll,” I say quietly, “we’ve already done that twice.” I pause. “All you have to do is say when.”
Color rises in her cheeks, even as she tries to hide it, pushing at my chest to create space. It draws a few more glances, but she doesn’t notice. She’s only looking at me.
“Dance with me,” I say.
“I don’t know how to dance like that.” She gestures toward the floor.
“You don’t have to.” I hold her gaze. “You let me lead.”
She swallows. “Okay.”
I stand and hold out my hand. She takes it, and I pull her to her feet, guiding her toward the floor.
Conversations shift as we pass. By the time we step into the open space, people are already moving back, giving us room.
I draw her in by the waist, positioning her—her hand settling on my shoulder, mine closing around hers and lifting it to my chest.
“I wish people would stop staring at us,” she says, glancing up at me.
“They won’t,” I say. “You’ll get used to it.” I pause, slightly. “Or you stop seeing me.”
She scrunches her nose. “I mean, I do like you, but—“
“Hey, now,” I laugh, cutting her off.
She wiggles her eyebrows. “What?”
I look down at her, a faint smile pulling at my mouth. “You think you’re cute, don’t you?”
“I know I’m cute,” she says.
“If I thought you wouldn’t be mortified, I’d kiss you right now,” I say.
“You can kiss me,” she says.
I hold her gaze for a second. “Yeah?”
She nods.
That’s all I need. I let her go long enough to take her face in my hands, tilting it up to me. Her grip tightens at my waist as I lean down and kiss her right there in the middle of the floor. The room shifts. Conversations stop. Eyes turn.
Good. Let them see it. Let them understand exactly who she belongs to, and what happens if they forget.