He grins, and we slide back into the music. I can’t say that we’re completely healed, but we’re better, and I feel lighter around Ollie than I have in a very long time.
After four straight songs, I am ready for a drink, so when Courtney comes by and suggests it, we go eagerly with her. Ollie gets waylaid by someone he knows from work, and it ends up being just Courtney and me who ease up to the bar. I tell the bartender to put our drinks on Damien’s tab, and he agrees so easily that I know that not only has Damien already instructed the staff to cater to us, but they have all visually identified me. I’m being watched. Protected. And although it feels a bit strange to be caught in the spotlight like that, I can’t deny it makes me feel safer.
But I won’t feel truly safe until Damien shows up and I can slide into his arms.
“What happened to the destination bridal shower?” I ask Courtney as we wait for the drinks. I have to practically shout to be heard, and I just know I’ll have no voice at all tomorrow.
“I think it’s off the agenda,” she says.
“Why?” I expect the answer to have something to do with her nightmare of a travel schedule. Instead, she nods toward the dance floor where Jamie has her arms up in the air and her hips gyrating between Ryan and Ollie.
“I should hate her, you know,” Courtney says without malice, and that chill rushes over me once again.
“What are you saying, Courtney?” I ask, praying that I’m wrong.
I see the rise and fall of her chest. “I’m not going to marry him,” she says. “I don’t want to be that woman whose husband cheats on her, and I don’t want to get married because I’m a good choice. I can’t do that to myself. Hell, I can’t do that to him. We’d be miserable in a year and divorced in two.”
“Oh.” I try to swallow, but my mouth is too dry. I’m shocked by her words, and I feel bad for Ollie, who is going to know he fucked up, and that will make it all the worse. But at the same time, I’m glad. As pleased as I am that Ollie and I are on the mend, he did fuck this up with Courtney, and everything she’s said so far is dead on the money. “When are you telling him?”
“Soon. Maybe tonight. I just need to get up the courage.” She shrugs. “It’s not that I don’t love him. It’s just . . . ” She trails off, as if she doesn’t quite know how to say it.
“Don’t worry,” I say, clutching her hand. “Believe me, I know.”
I have had too many drinks and danced too many dances by the time Damien finally arrives at the club. Heads turn, as always, and the crowd parts. He strides straight toward me, and I watch, transfixed, as he moves across the dance floor, not quite able to believe that all of that power and grace belongs to me. That out of everyone in that club, I am the one who will see him naked. Who will feel the heat of his mouth upon my skin. Who will cry out when he thrusts himself deep inside me.
He hooks an arm around me and kisses me hard. I cling to him. I am somewhere in that place between buzzed and wasted, and I feel every beat of the loud music reverberating through me. I am sweaty with exertion, my skin slick, my clothes clinging to me. I lift myself up on tiptoes and press my lips to his ear. “I want you. Now.”
I am not exaggerating; I am desperate for him. But considering we’re on a dance floor, I hardly expect my wish to come true. So I am surprised when he grips my arm and steers me toward the back of the club, then tugs me into a small elevator that he calls with a card key.
Despite the fact that I’m in a haze, I can’t help but notice the tension in his face. The hardness of his eyes. Not to mention the fact that he has yet to speak one word to me.
“Damien? What is it?”
The elevator opens and we are in an office. One wall is entirely glass, and I remember seeing it from below. It is made of reflective glass and surrounded by lights so that anyone who looks up sees only the distorted reflection of dancers surrounded by the glare of colored lights.