1. Katerina #3
At the edge of the table, Skye is leaning on Casey, who’s rummaging in her bag for a lens cap.
They’re both half-laughing about something.
Lexi and Sofia are still in the center of the room, dancing slowly now that the music has shifted.
It’s a perfect photo opportunity, and Casey lifts her camera.
The snap and flash freeze them mid-laugh, arms flung around each other.
Bex looks at me again. Her gaze lingers on my hands, maybe because I’m fiddling with my glass. In the swirling crowd, we’re too close, but I can’t make myself move away.
She drags a hand through her hair. “You know, you used to be more fun.”
My brow furrows. “Excuse me?”
“Before the wedding planner thing. You’d come to Sofia’s events, you’d bring that big camera. You’d talk about your documentary projects at parties. Remember that? You once told me you were going to film a whole piece about city buskers in Brooklyn.”
I wince. That was years ago, before I took on the kind of corporate wedding clients who paid enough to hush my more creative ambitions. “I was young,” I say. “We all have phases.”
She studies me in that uncomfortably direct way. “Yeah.”
I bristle. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Right.” She’s quiet for a moment, just scanning my face. Then she nods at Sofia again. “Look, I’m just messing with you. I know how it goes. People change.”
She says it lightly, no judgment, but it slides under my skin anyway, because I’m not sure if she’s right or if she’s just pegging me as someone who gave up too soon.
I sip my water, focusing on the clink of ice. The new band strikes a slower tune, horns moaning through something that sounds like longing. Bex glances around, then leans in again. “Dance with me.”
It’s not a question. Or maybe it is, but it’s phrased like a dare. My pulse skitters. “No,” I say, trying to sound definitive.
She shrugs, but her lips curve in a playful half-smile. “Chicken.”
I huff. “I’m not—no, I just see no reason to flail around in a crowded bar. I’m fine here. Besides, music is… better appreciated from a respectful distance.”
“You see this place? No one here is being respectful with distance.”
“They’re definitely not.”
“Come on.” She reaches out, palm up, not quite touching me. “Two minutes.”
I hesitate, glance at her hand. Short nails, one ring, the faint speckle of black ink near her index finger that suggests she handles tattoo needles all day. Her palm is steady, though.
My heart gives a small, uninvited flutter.
I swallow. “Fine,” I say, forcing a calm I barely feel. “One dance.”
She grins like she’s just won a small victory. Then she beckons me away from the barstool.
The next minutes blur. The band shifts into a mid-tempo number, still jazzy but with a bounce of sax underneath.
The dance floor is more like a jammed corridor.
Bex’s hand finds my waist, light but sure.
I’m hyper-aware of every shift of her stance, every brush of her jacket.
We move in some sort of half-step pattern.
It’s not neat, and it’s definitely not in perfect sync. But for some reason, it feels… nice.
She’s close. Closer than we’ve been in a long time. My pulse is hammering, and part of me is frantic for an excuse to break away. Another part of me is so surprised by the wave of something that I stand there a second too long.
Her eyes flick to my face. “See? Not so terrible.”
It’s not. Which is the problem, actually. I keep my voice steady. “Just a lot of people.”
“Mm-hmm.” She does a gentle sway, guiding me. It’s surprisingly un-chaotic for a person who mocks organization at every turn.
I realize I’m staring at the faint freckles across the bridge of her nose. They’re subtle, half-hidden by the bar’s dim light. I reclassify them as a random detail. Nothing more.
She’s in motion, guiding us through the press of bodies. We half-spin until my back faces the corner stage, the horns wailing behind me. I catch a glimpse of Lexi spinning Sofia off in the distance.
Then Bex edges closer, a move that’s part of the dance, presumably. My breath trips. I drop my gaze to her chest for half a second, see another line of tattoos peeking above her neckline.
We keep going until the final flourish of the sax ends, and I feel her exhale. The band transitions instantly to something else, but Bex lets her hold on me slide away. “Thanks,” she murmurs, stepping back.
I swallow, nodding. “Sure.” My voice is too rough. For a second, neither of us moves, and the crowd surges around us.
Then Bex licks her lower lip, tucks it in slightly, like she’s deciding something. Her eyes flick to my face. I realize for the first time there’s a scar near her left eyebrow, a faint curved line. I never noticed that before.
And then she turns away. “I need water. You?”
I sag in relief. “Yes, please.”
She melts into the crowd, leaving me alone in the swirl of neon and horns. My heart is still pounding. I close my eyes, just for a second. Another wave of heat rolls through me, or it might be the overhead lights.
There’s no reason to feel flustered. That was just a dance.
I’m a professional. I can handle a dance.