Chapter 11 #3
He continued to hum softly in her ear as they moved around the dance floor, causing Claire's mind to race. Whether it was the champagne or the music—or the bizarre twist of fate reuniting them—she didn't know.
"I believe the piano player's version was somewhat slower—and heavier on the jazz," she said.
"This band is great, but I like our version more," he said.
Our version. OUR version? What is even happening?
Claire felt his grip tighten as he pulled her closer.
A noticeable distance still remained between them, though far less than when they had first stepped onto the dance floor.
Before she knew it, one song had slipped into the next.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed so much or enjoyed herself so completely.
Once again, his sense of humor and easygoing nature impressed her, and despite her calm demeanor, her heart continued to pound.
Later, she would recognize it as the exact feeling that had crept up on her in Jamaica.
This mutual attraction? Impossible to ignore…
and their flirtatious banter only confirmed it.
With every new tune, upbeat and bubbly, or slow and sensual, he hummed or sang the words in her ear. But as with all good things, the songs ended, the band prepared for a short break, and they were left standing and staring at one another in the middle of the dance floor.
"I haven't danced like that in years. Thank you," Claire said.
"One more? When the band starts back up?" he asked.
"I’d love to, it's just that…” She looked anxiously around the room in search of Hamish.
"If I'm keeping you from someone…”
"No, it's not that. It's these damn shoes." She shifted her weight back and forth.
"Something from the bar then?" Jay suggested.
"You're reading my mind."
He led her back through the crowd to the bar on the opposite side of the ballroom. She caught a glimpse of Hamish, laughing and holding court with Molly and several contemporaries. Nicole, she noticed, seemed to be missing from the group.
"Rum punch?" Jay asked, raising a playful eyebrow in a nod to their Jamaican holiday.
"I was thinking more along the lines of water."
"Think I'll do the same,” he said and turned to the bartender.
Claire continued to scan the ballroom. The bandstand stood vacant, but many couples remained on the dance floor, eager for the next set. She studied the corner where Hamish had stood moments before, hoping to catch his eye, but found a host of new faces in his place.
Jay held out a glass. "Here you are.”
"Thank you." She took it from him without making eye contact.
"Is something wrong?" he asked.
"I was hoping to lock eyes with Hamish. I can't seem to keep track of him. He keeps disappearing." Her gaze traveled back and forth across the crowd. "If I know Hamish, he may have moved his party elsewhere."
"Want to do the same?” Jay asked. “Maybe find a quiet spot elsewhere to catch up? I know this great little place that makes the world’s best gelato."
"I'd love to… it's just…” Claire hesitated. “I didn't come here alone."
A look of horror struck Jay’s face. "Oh, I am so sorry. I just assumed that—"
"No, no, it’s not like that. I'm here with Molly, my best friend. We're sharing a suite—kind of a girls' weekend thing courtesy of Hamish. I can't seem to keep track of her either."
"What's she wearing?" he asked.
“A sparkly black number,” Claire said with an eyeroll.
"Well, that narrows it down." He pointed out the multitude of black gowns around the room. “It’s like Where’s Waldo for formalwear."
"I'll send her a text. It'll be fine." Claire said, though unsure if she’d regret that decision in a few hours.
"Perfect. Shall we?" Jay offered his elbow.
Claire eyed him with a serious look. "Not until you’ve answered one very important question."
"Uh oh.” Jay’s expression tightened. “Now I’m worried."
"It seems you remembered the song that launched our first interaction, my preferred late-night cocktail, my political leanings, and my Final Four picks from last season. You have not, however, given me any indication this evening that you remember my name," she said.
Jay glanced at the floor for a moment. When he looked back up, his eyes held a playful expression. "Are you implying that I don't know your name?"
"I'm not implying. I'm stating it plainly. You don’t remember my name—and that’s okay."
"Of course I remember your name," he said quickly. “It's Chloe."
"No." Claire shook her head.
"Clarissa?" he guessed.
"Sorry." She kept shaking her head.
He snapped his fingers with a grin. "I know… Claudia!"
"Wrong on all counts.” She folded her arms, frustration creeping in. “Do you give up, Mr. Avery?”
He held her gaze, his expression turning serious. Then he leaned in, lowering his voice to a tender whisper. His lips brushed her ear, sending a spark of electricity down her spine.
"I gave up when I decided not to comb the entire island of Jamaica in search of you,” he said. “Believe me, I thought about it. But now that I’ve found you again, Claire, I’m not giving up.”