Chapter 4 #2
Antoine’s expression faltered, his smile thinning as he realized his chance had slipped away. “Of course,” Antoine said, his voice polite but edged with disappointment. “How could I interrupt such a moment?”
James didn’t respond, his focus already back on Evie as he gently guided her away from the group. His hand on her back pressed more firmly now, a silent claim, though he wasn’t sure who it was for—Antoine, the crowd, or himself.
As they stepped onto the dance floor, the music swelled, and James turned her to face him. Her eyes searched his, her lips curving into a small, knowing smile.
“Possessive much?” she teased her tone light but her gaze steady.
James’s grip on her waist tightened slightly as he pulled her closer. “Just making sure everyone knows exactly where you stand,” he replied, his voice low enough for only her to hear.
Her smile deepened, her head tilting ever so slightly. “And where’s that?”
“Right here,” he said, his eyes darkening.
The music enveloped them, soft and lilting, a rhythm that seemed to sync with the steady cadence of their steps. James moved effortlessly, his hand firm yet gentle on Evie’s back, guiding her through the flow of the dance.
Her other hand rested lightly in his, her fingers warm against his palm, and he couldn’t help but notice how perfectly they fit.
The space between them felt almost nonexistent, her body swaying in perfect time with his. The world outside their small circle faded entirely—the crowd, the cameras, even the grandeur of the room. All that remained was the two of them, caught in the quiet intimacy of the moment.
Her dress brushed against his legs with each step, the soft rustle of the fabric blending with the music.
The faint scent of her perfume, something floral and delicate, lingered in the air between them, making his head spin in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Her gaze flitted upward briefly, her eyes meeting his, and the intensity there made his pulse quicken.
James’s grip on her tightened fractionally, his hand pressing against the small of her back as he led her into a gentle turn. The hem of her dress swirled around them, catching the soft light of the chandeliers, making her seem almost ethereal.
He wasn’t sure how long they’d been moving like this—time felt irrelevant. All he knew was the press of her body against his, the rhythm of her breath matching his own, and the way her presence filled the space between them so completely that it was almost overwhelming.
She glanced up at him again, her lips curving into the faintest smile, and his chest tightened.
James had danced countless times before—at galas, at parties, even on a whim—but nothing had ever felt like this.
This wasn’t just dancing; it was something more, something unscripted and dangerously close to real.
As the music slowed, James spun her gently, the delicate fabric of her dress catching the light, shimmering like liquid gold as she twirled back into his arms.
His hand found the small of her back again, steady and sure, his other hand holding hers just tightly enough to keep her close. Her scent, soft and warm, wrapped around him, more intoxicating than the champagne they’d been served all night.
The applause swelled around them, polite and distant, but James barely registered it.
His gaze was fixed on Evie, the way her cheeks were faintly flushed, her lips slightly parted as she caught her breath.
The crowd faded into the background, the grandeur of the room dimming until it felt like they were the only two people there.
She looked up at him, her eyes catching his own with an intensity that made his chest tighten. For a moment, he forgot to breathe. There was something about the way she held his gaze—like she was daring him to let his guard down, just for a second.
“Dance with me again,” he murmured, leaning in just enough for only her to hear. His voice came out softer than he intended, an edge of vulnerability slipping through the usual calm.
Evie didn’t reply. She didn’t need to. Her hand in his shifted slightly, her fingers tightening just enough for him to notice.
She held his gaze for another moment, her eyes steady but unreadable, before her attention shifted briefly to the floor between them.
Still, she stayed close, her body swaying naturally with his, the silent answer in her movement unmistakable.
The music carried them, soft and slow, and for once, James wasn’t thinking ahead, wasn’t planning his next move or calculating the room.
All he could focus on was the way her body fit against his, the warmth of her hand in his, the faint scent of her perfume wrapping around him like a spell he couldn’t shake.
And he’d be damned if he knew why dancing with her felt so good—why it felt so right.
*****
The night air hit cooler than she expected. The warmth of the ballroom had lulled her into thinking it was still summer, but the crisp breeze outside told a different story. It nipped at her bare shoulders, the chill sinking in through the thin satin of her dress.
Her heels clicked softly on the stone pavement as they walked toward the car. Her steps were slower now, more careful. The ache had started around hour two of the gala, but she’d pushed through. By hour four, her toes were screaming.
“Hurts, huh?” he asked, glancing down at her feet.
“I’m fine,” she muttered through clenched teeth, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
He didn’t respond, just kept walking with that smooth, effortless stride of his—like he’d never known foot pain a day in his life. Of course, he hadn’t. Men never do. Their shoes didn’t require balance, posture, or the sacrifice of circulation to their toes.
Her step faltered slightly, just enough to make her curse under her breath.
That’s when he stopped.
He didn’t say anything. Just turned to face her, one brow raised, his gaze sliding from her face to her feet like he was calculating something.
“Don’t,” she warned, pointing a finger at him.
He didn’t listen. Of course, he didn’t.
With one smooth, effortless motion, he crouched down in front of her, his fingers already tugging at the laces of his polished black dress shoes.
Her eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” he muttered, yanking one shoe off, then the other. He stood slowly, his socks now pressed against the cold pavement, but he didn’t seem to care. He held the shoes out to her like it was the most obvious solution in the world.
“Here,” he said, giving them a little shake in her direction.
Her eyes darted from the shoes to his face, stunned. “Are you serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?”
She stared at him for a second longer, mouth slightly open. “You are not giving me your shoes.”
“You’re right,” he said, tilting his head toward her. “I’m lending them.” He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing just a bit. “Take them, Monroe. Or do you want to limp all the way to the car?”
Her pride screamed at her to refuse. Absolutely not. But her feet? Her feet were ready to jump into those shoes with zero shame.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered, grabbing them from his hands.
“Unbelievable is you wearing five-inch heels to a four-hour event,” he shot back, stuffing his hands into his pockets like this was just another Tuesday.
“Don’t act like you know anything about fashion,” she muttered, slipping her feet into his shoes. They were too big, obviously, but they were warm. Soft. Comfortable in a way she hadn’t expected. Her feet sighed with relief.