Chapter 9 #2
The evening air is warm and golden with the last of the sun.
Music drifts from the big event building ahead of us.
Guests cross the property in clusters, some in cocktail clothes, others in varying levels of commitment to the Game of Thrones theme.
One guy appears to be wearing actual faux fur in Texas in spring, which seems deeply unwise.
Tavey leans a little closer to me as we walk. Maybe because of the uneven ground. Maybe because she wants to.
I’m not going to ask which.
When we reach the main building, she slows, taking in the floral arch at the entrance, the lanterns, and the trays of drinks being passed around by servers.
“Oh wow,” she says softly. “This is gorgeous.”
The wonder in her voice does something to me.
That’s the thing about Tavey. She never acts like delight is childish. She just lets herself feel it. Fully. Openly. It’s one of the things I admire most about her.
And maybe one of the things I envy.
As soon as we step inside, heads turn.
Not mine. I’m already looking at her.
But I notice.
Men noticing her. Women too, honestly. She’s hard to miss in that dress. Harder still when she smiles. There’s a server by the champagne tower who nearly walks into a pillar because he’s looking at her instead of where he’s going.
A small, primitive part of my brain is deeply pleased by that.
Another part is annoyed.
She’s with me.
The thought comes uninvited and lands with more force than it should.
Not mine. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But tonight, she’s with me.
“Do you want a drink?” I ask quietly.
She looks up at me. “Yes, but only if it’s festive.”
“Festive.”
“Something blue. Or smoky. Or served in a goblet.”
“You’re making this difficult on purpose.”
“Yes.” She smiles. “It’s one of my love languages.”
Before I can respond to that loaded little statement, a woman in a silver dress sweeps by us and says, “Oh my god, you two understood the assignment.”
Tavey lights up. “Thank you!”
The woman points at me. “Especially you. Most men would’ve chickened out.”
Tavey looks inordinately pleased by this. “See? Validation.”
I incline my head gravely. “I stand corrected.”
The woman moves on, and Tavey whispers, “You really do look amazing.”
The softness in her voice cuts deeper than the compliment from a stranger.
I look away first.
“Come on,” I mutter. “Let’s find you a goblet.”
The reception space is set up in a huge open hall with white beams, chandeliers, and a dance floor already filling up with early arrivals. There are long tables arranged family-style, centerpieces of candles and dark flowers, and enough dramatic drapery to satisfy even Tavey’s exacting standards.
She turns in a slow circle, taking it all in. “This is so extra.”
“You say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is absolutely a compliment.”
A server passes with a tray of blue cocktails in coupe glasses, each one topped with a twist of candied citrus and what looks like edible glitter.
Tavey makes a delighted noise. “Perfect. I’ll take six.”
I snag one from the tray and hand it to her. “Start with one.”
She takes it carefully, the dragon clutch dangling from her wrist. “You’re weirdly bossy for a barbarian warlord.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“Do you?”
“No.”
She laughs, then takes a sip. Her eyes widen. “Oh, this is dangerous.”
I take that as my cue to grab something simpler for myself off a passing tray.
We drift farther into the room, stopping every few feet because someone wants to say hello.
Mostly people she knows better than I do—design, product, one of the HR managers.
Tavey talks to everyone with the same bright enthusiasm, introducing me when needed as though there’s any universe where people at FMJ don’t know who I am.
Watching her outside the office is strange in the best way.
At work, she’s warm and funny, sure. But this version of her is looser. More openly animated. Like seeing a color I didn’t realize had shades.
At one point she gets distracted by the seating chart, which has apparently been styled to look like a royal decree. She tugs me with her toward it and stands close enough that her shoulder brushes my arm as she scans the names.
“We’re at table nine,” she says. “With some of Geeta’s relatives, a couple of people from R&D and”—she gives an exaggerated wince—“Devon.”
I grunt.
She looks over, her expression between amused and wary. “You don’t sound thrilled.”
“I’m not.”
She slants me a look. “You don’t like Devon?”
I bite down the urge to ask if she likes Devon. and then remind myself that she’s here with me. Devon is irrelevant. Instead I state the obvious. “Devon loves gossip.”
“Oh.” But then she frowns, taking the tiniest step away from me. “So, you don’t want Devon to know we’re here together?”
Fuuuck.
That is not what I meant at all. And this is why I shouldn’t be allowed out in public.
Since I can’t very well whip out my phone and text Cassie for advice, I go for honesty.
“If I didn’t want Devon to know we’re here together, we wouldn’t be here together.”
There’s so much more I want to say. I want to tell her that I don’t care who sees us together. That Devon can go fuck himself. That Devon could jump on a table and announce to the entire crowd that we’re together and I’d be fine with that.
But Devon can be an attention hog, and I don’t want to share her attention tonight.
Before I can say any or all of that, she gives a little smile, which I hope means she knows what I’m thinking. Then she adds, “Maybe he’ll be on his best behavior.”
“Maybe I’ll be abducted by dragons.”
“That seems less likely.”
“Does it?”
She laughs and bumps her shoulder against mine. The tiny contact lands like a spark.
Maybe she didn’t read all of my subtext, but I think she got the gist of it.
It’s getting harder to pretend I’m unaffected by her. Harder still when she seems determined to touch me every chance she gets, even if half those touches are probably absentminded.
Probably.
A song changes. Something upbeat. A little cheesy.
Tavey perks up immediately. “Oh! I love this song.”
Of course she does.
“Good for you,” I say.
She turns to me with narrowed eyes. “Was that sarcasm?”
“Yes.”
“Rude.”
I take a sip of my drink. “You’ll survive.”
Instead of firing back, she just looks at me for a second. Then her mouth curves in a slow, mischievous smile.
That smile should come with a warning label.
“What?” I ask.
She sets her nearly empty glass on a passing tray and reaches for my hand.
Everything in me goes still.
“What are you doing?”
“Dancing.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t dance.”
“That sounds made up.”
“It’s not made up.”
She starts tugging anyway. “Come on.”
I plant my boots. “Tavey.”
“Miller.” She gives me a very pointed look. “You dressed as a shirtless Dothraki warrior for a themed wedding. You do not get to draw the line at dancing.”
I stare at her.
She stares right back, triumphant.
Fuck. She has a point.
“I hate that you’re right,” I tell her.
“I know.”
Before I can come up with another objection, she tugs me onto the dance floor.
I’m not a dancer.
I am, however, capable of moving from one foot to the other without injury, which appears to satisfy her far more than it should. She beams up at me like I’ve given her a gift just by showing up.
The song is fast enough that there’s no expectation of real skill. Just movement. Rhythm. A little chaos. Which suits her fine.
She sways and spins and laughs when one of her scarves gets wrapped briefly around my wrist. I unwind it and hand it back to her, and she says, “See? You’re a natural.”
“At untangling hazards?”
“At dancing.”
“I think we have different definitions of that word.”
“Mine is better.”
That much is obvious.
The song ends and another starts before she can drag me off the floor. Slower this time. Not a full-on ballad, but close enough that the people around us start pairing off more deliberately.
Tavey hesitates.
I should let her go.
Instead, I step closer.
Just enough to make the choice for both of us.
Her eyes lift to mine. There’s a flicker of uncertainty there. Hope too.
Careful, I tell myself.
Too late, another part of me answers.
I set one hand on her waist.
She inhales.
Then she slides her hand up to my shoulder, fingers light against the leather there, and we start to move.
It’s barely dancing. More swaying than anything else.
But she’s in my arms.
Her body is warm and soft against mine. Her perfume is subtle, something clean and floral with a hint of spice. Every time she breathes, the top of her dress shifts just enough to threaten my already fragile self-control.
She tips her face up toward me. “You’re doing great.”
“I’m standing.”
“You’re standing rhythmically.”
“That feels generous.”
“I’m a generous person.”
“I’ve noticed.”
She smiles at that, but it fades into something quieter after a second. Something real.
Around us, the room blurs into noise and candlelight.
This—
This is dangerous in a whole different way.
Because I knew I wanted her. I’ve known that for years.
But this isn’t just want.
It’s the way she fits. The ease of her in my space. The way my body seems to recognize hers instantly, as though some part of me has been waiting for this exact moment without my permission.
And more than that—
I like making her happy.
Like the honest, uncomplicated pleasure on her face when she looked at me and realized I’d dressed up too. The way she leaned into me on the walk over here. The way she looks at me now like I’m not a temporary convenience for a wedding weekend but someone she’s actually glad to be with.
My chest tightens.
Shit.
This is bad.
Not because I don’t want it.
Because I do.
Too much.
A few more songs and I’m going to start imagining things I have no right to imagine. Futures I have no business building in my head.
She rests a little more of her weight against me, and my hand flexes at her waist.
“Tired?” I ask quietly.
“No.” She pauses. “Maybe a little overwhelmed.”
“Too many people?”
She gives me a tiny shrug. “Not in a bad way. Just… a lot. Everything is kind of perfect.”
Her words land like a blow.
Perfect.
I look down at her.
At her flushed cheeks and bright eyes and dragon clips and ridiculous purse.
And I think, with sudden, terrifying certainty:
I want more than one night.
Not just this dance. Not just this wedding. Not just the possibility of getting her in my bed.
I want mornings. I want in-jokes. I want her making fun of my music in my kitchen while I make coffee. I want her dragons and scarves and impossible delight spilling into all the quiet corners of my life.
I want—
“Hey, Miller.”
I look up.
Raquel stands a few feet away at the edge of the dance floor, elegant in dark green, polished as ever. One hand lifts in a small wave.
Tavey shifts in my arms, just enough to look past my shoulder. I feel her stiffen, which confirms what I already knew. The timing here is not fantastic.
I lower my hand from her waist at once.
Raquel smiles, easy and social. “Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to say hi.”
“Hey,” I say.
That’s it. No invitation. No warmth beyond basic decency.
Raquel’s gaze flicks from me to Tavey and back. Something knowing passes through her expression, gone too fast to pin down.
“Well,” she says lightly, “I’ll let you get back to it.”
Tavey offers a polite little smile. Raquel moves on.
And that’s that.
Or at least, I hope it is.
I look down at Tavey. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” She nods quickly. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Because I’ve spent enough years reading people to know that answer is too fast.
But before I can ask more, the song ends. The room shifts around us again, the spell of the dance broken just enough that she steps back.
Then she smiles up at me.
A real one. Bright and a little shy.
And whatever tiny shadow crossed her face is gone so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it.
“See?” she says. “You dance.”
I exhale a quiet laugh. “Don’t spread that around.”
“No promises.”
She picks up her dragon clutch from where she’d tucked it under her arm and loops the strap more securely around her wrist. Then, without seeming to think much of it, she reaches for my hand again.
Not to drag me this time.
Just to hold it.
Casual as anything.
Like it belongs there.
My fingers close around hers automatically.
And as we walk off the dance floor together, her hand in mine, one thought settles into place with dangerous certainty:
Tonight is going exactly the way I wanted.