14. Griffin #2
My hand finds the small of her back as I guide her through the crowd. The silky fabric of her dress is cool beneath my palm, but I can feel the warmth of her skin underneath. My brain short-circuits for a second.
Focus, McGregor. You’re here on a mission.
I scan the room, looking for any sign of Malcolm Chase or the FIS agents who are supposedly here. The problem is, I have no idea what they look like. They could be anyone. The bartender, the woman in the gold dress laughing too loudly, the elderly gentleman examining a painting in the corner.
Or maybe the guy staring directly at us from across the room?
He’s mid-forties, clean-cut in a way that screams “government official,” and he’s watching us with an intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I catch his eye and give him a subtle nod.
The man’s face flushes bright red, and he quickly turns away, nearly spilling his champagne in the process.
Hmm. Either that’s the worst secret agent in history, or…
“What are you looking at?” Anika asks, following my gaze.
“Nothing. Just that guy who was staring at you.”
“At me?” She laughs. “I doubt it. Everyone here looks like they walked off a runway.”
“Trust me, he was definitely checking you out.”
A strange possessiveness surges through me, and I slide my arm around her waist, drawing her closer. She fits against my side perfectly, like she was designed to be there.
“What was that for?” she asks, eyes sparkling.
“Just making sure everyone knows you’re with me tonight.”
The gesture feels right, even though I have no claim to her.
She’s here for dating practice, I remind myself.
For some other guy named Thomas. The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest, and I pull her slightly closer.
We’re supposed to look like a couple, after all.
But there’s something undeniably real about the way my heart races when she leans into me.
A waiter glides by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I snag two, handing one to Anika. Her fingers brush mine, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm.
“To practice dates,” I say, clinking my glass against hers.
“To practice,” she echoes, but something flickers in her eyes that makes my heart do a double backflip.
We wander through the party, passing clusters of wealthy investors discussing portfolios and profit margins. I should be listening for information about Malcolm Chase, but I can’t focus on anything except the woman beside me.
“So, this is how the other half lives,” Anika whispers, as she takes in the crystal chandeliers and ice sculptures.
“More like the other one percent,” I reply. “My mom would lose her mind in this place. She’d be wrapping appetizers in napkins to take home.”
Anika laughs, the sound light and musical. “My mother would be interrogating the staff about their astrological signs.”
“So,” Anika says, leaning closer so I can hear her over the ambient noise. Her clean scent fills my senses. “Tell me something I don’t know about Griffin McGregor.”
“I can play the harmonica,” I offer. “But only the first eight notes of ‘Piano Man.’”
She laughs, the sound warming me more than the champagne. “Impressive. What else?”
“No, no. Now it’s your turn,” I say, leaning slightly closer. “Tell me something about you.”
“There’s nothing interesting to tell.”
“Oh I think there is. What’s with the 80s music obsession? Every time I come into S’Holzfass, it’s like stepping into a time machine.”
“What’s wrong with 80s music?” She narrows her eyes defensively.
“Nothing! I just find it interesting. Most people our age are into…I don’t know, whatever’s trending now.”
“Well, most people have terrible taste,” she says with a shrug. “The 80s had the best music. New Order, Falco, Yaz…”
“Were you secretly born in 1971 and just aging really well?”
She laughs, the sound bright against the murmur of the party. “Maybe I’m taking after my mother. She acts like it’s still the nineteen sixties. All peace signs and tie-dye. I think she was born in the wrong era.” Anika takes another sip of champagne. “Maybe I was too.”
“That explains a lot, actually,” I say. “Why you’re so different from everyone else I’ve met.”
Her eyes soften for a moment before that familiar wall comes back up. “Different or weird?”
“In your case,” I say, gently tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, “more like extraordinary.”
Her eyes glimmer with something unreadable when I call her extraordinary, but then a ripple of movement flows through the crowd as the string quartet stops playing their tasteful chamber music.
For a moment, only murmurs and clinks of champagne glasses float through the air.
I cast my gaze around the room again, searching for Malcolm Chase among the elite crowd.
Then electronic music pumps through hidden speakers. The opening synthesizer notes of “The Safety Dance” by Men Without Hats.
Anika freezes, her face lighting up. “Oh I love this song!”
“Fun fact, did you know Men Without Hats is a Canadian band?” I ask, raising my voice over the music.
“You don’t say.” Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “No wonder I love it so much.”
I notice her feet tapping against the polished floor, her fingers drumming on her champagne glass to the beat. She’s trying to maintain her sophisticated composure, but her body clearly wants to move.
“You can dance if you want to,” I quip, nodding toward the center of the room where a few brave souls have started to sway.
Anika shakes her head, suddenly shy. “In front of all these people?”
“Who cares what they think?” I take her champagne glass and set it on a passing waiter’s tray alongside mine. “Come on. Your practice date is requesting a dance.”
She hesitates, glancing around at the sea of black-tie elegance. “I don’t know…”
“What happened to the woman who broke into my cabin singing Blondie at the top of her lungs?”
Her cheeks flush pink. “She wasn’t wearing a designer gown in a room full of millionaires.”
The music builds, and I see her resolve crumbling. Her shoulders start moving almost imperceptibly to the beat.
“Your feet are already dancing,” I point out. “The rest of you might as well join them.”
Less than a minute into the song, something magical happens. Anika finds herself on the dance floor, her inhibitions seeming to vanish with each step.
“We can leave your friends behind,” she sings, suddenly transforming into a 1980s dancing queen right before my eyes.
She bounces on her toes, her arms swing with enthusiastic abandon, and she does these little kicks, which shouldn’t work with her floor-length gown but somehow do.
The formerly stuffy atmosphere of the gala suddenly turns into a disco as she spins, the DJ’s lights becoming a halo of fire around her laughing face.
I stand frozen, watching her become this radiant creature of pure joy. My heart hammers against my ribs with such force I worry I might need medical attention.
“Griffin!” she shouts, grabbing my hands. “Come dance!”
I try my best to mirror her movements, but coordination on ice doesn’t translate to the dance floor. My limbs move stiffly, a beat behind the music.
“You’re terrible!” she shouts over the music, laughing.
“I’m better on skates!” I shout back.
“Stop thinking about it! Just have fun!”
She demonstrates a move involving her arms waving above her head while her hips swing in a figure eight. When I try it, she laughs so hard she snorts, which only makes her laugh harder.
Her joy sparks something inside me. A wild, untamed happiness I haven’t experienced since childhood.
I find myself dancing without caring how I look, moving for the pure pleasure of movement.
A few other couples join us on the floor, others move aside, giving Anika room for her increasingly enthusiastic moves.
She kicks off her high heels, sending them sliding across the polished floor, and continues barefoot, now adding little jumps.
“S-A-F-E-T-Y!” she spells out with her arms.
I decide if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em and launch into my best robot dance, moving my arms in mechanical jerks, moonwalking backward (or trying to).
Anika doubles over laughing, clutching her stomach. “What is THAT?”
“It’s ‘The Safety Dance!’” I defend myself, continuing my robotic movements.
Her laughter rings out, pure and uninhibited. She wipes tears from her eyes, careful not to smudge her makeup.
She moves closer, our bodies almost touching as we dance. Her cheeks flush pink from exertion, her eyes sparkle with happiness, and I realize I’m witnessing something rare and precious. Anika Gisler completely, genuinely happy.
I can’t stop staring at her. The way her hair falls across her face when she dips her head. The delicate line of her throat when she throws her head back laughing. The way her hands move through the air like she ‘just don’t care’.
“Come on, goalie man!” she teases. “Keep up!”
I grab her hand and spin her around. When she returns to me, she’s closer than before, her body brushing against mine. For a heartbeat, our eyes lock. Something electric passes between us. A current of understanding, of connection. Her smile softens, becoming something more intimate.
Our faces are so close I can see the flecks of gold in her blue eyes. We’re both breathing hard, her chest rising and falling against mine. For one suspended moment, we’re frozen there. Bodies pressed together, faces inches apart, the world reduced to just us two.
The music builds, and I pull Anika flush against me, dipping her low.
“Have I told you how exquisite you look tonight?” I breathe the words against the skin of her neck. I can feel her pulse quicken even as she’s lost for words.
Then, with rapid synthesized claps, the music ends and the spell breaks. But I keep her close, unwilling to let go. Anika stares up at me, lips parted, eyes alight with wonder.