His eyes flash with surprise, before he schools his expression. A slow tip of his head. An arched eyebrow, raised in challenge.
I tip back the rest of my drink, my gaze never leaving him. He holds my stare as I arch my eyebrow, too, and tell him in that silent, unspoken way we have:
Challenge accepted.
? SIX ?
Christopher
Well. So much for trying to avoid Kate.
When I asked Jamie to find out from Bea if Kate planned to come to Sula’s party, he said she’d told Bea no. Clearly, that plan changed.
Kate stands across the room, pointedly ignoring me since our eyes met. Fine. I can handle being ignored, even if I’m not terribly familiar with the experience, thanks to the sheer luck of my genetics. I might have done jack shit to earn my looks and presence, but I have no qualms about thoroughly, frequently enjoying the physical pleasures that transpire from possessing what draws so many women.
Jaw clenching, I stare at the most obvious exception—Kate.
“Bea only told me when I got here that it was a last-minute decision,” Jamie says beside me, handing me a beer. “I’d have warned you if I knew sooner.”
I take a long pull from the bottle and tear my gaze away from Kate. “It’ll be fine.”
“If you say so,” he mutters, before taking a swig of his own.
“Okay!” Sula claps her hands to get the group’s attention. She is, of course, standing on the coffee table, her cheeks flushed to a bronze almost as deep as her hair.
“She’s lit, isn’t she?” Jamie asks.
I nod, smiling as I remember the first Tacos and Tangos Sula birthday party I came to three years ago. It was just a few months after Jules dragged me to my first game night, but Sula and I had already formed a fast, intense bond over Risk and board-game world domination. “Every birthday,” I tell him. “Tango, tacos, and a very intoxicated Sula.”
Jamie grins as she does a few dance steps across the coffee table and explains that folks who know how to tango go to the left side of the room, those who need a tutorial, to the right.
“You familiar with the tango?” I ask him.
“I am. My mother insisted all of her sons take ballroom lessons. You know the tango by now, I assume?”
“I was brought into the tango fold three years ago.”
He whistles appreciatively. “We have a master on our hands.”
Kate’s smoky laugh cracks through the air like a whip and lassos my attention. I glance her way and see she’s talking to someone who I have to begrudgingly admit is good-looking, standing at just about her height, well-dressed, put together. They’ve got a softie-with-nerd-glasses vibe going. Kate doesn’t smile for them, but they have her attention—worse, her laughter.
Hot aggravation slides beneath my skin.
I tear my gaze away and refocus on Jamie, who’s watching me curiously. “I know the tango, but I’m no master at it,” I tell him, trying to move past my little slip. “As you’ll see very soon.”
As if on cue, Margo saunters my way. “Let’s go,” she says. “Sula’s too busy hollering at the newbies about tango’s fundamentals. Whisk me away.”
“As the lady wishes.” I hand Jamie my beer and shrug off my jacket, setting it aside. Then I take the beer back and bolt the rest of it. Margo hoots appreciatively. Next, I make quick work of my sleeves, cuffing and pushing them up my arms to my elbows, and offer her my hand. “Shall we?”
She smiles. “We shall. West—shit, I mean Jamie. Sorry.”
He dips his head. “No apology necessary.”
Margo jerks her head toward Bea, who walks back into the room from the hallway, searching the floor. “Your dance partner awaits.” She bites her lip. “I say this with the deepest love for Bea, no trash talk, just truth—you do know the beating your toes are about to take?”
Jamie grins, his gaze finding Bea. “I have some experience dancing with Beatrice.” He sets down his beer on the table beside him and says, already strolling toward her. “She knows she can step on my toes all she wants.”
Margo sighs as we watch them meet and talk, Bea smiling up at Jamie as he wraps an arm around her waist and their hands find each other’s. They take one slow step, then another, then shift, quickly, Bea laughing as they bump into each other. Jamie bends to whisper something in her ear.
“They’re so damn cute,” Margo says.
I grunt.
She rolls her eyes. “Now, now, no grunting. Some people are happy to find a partner for the dance of life, and we’re happy for them.”
“We both know that’s not my thing. Why would it be?” I take her waist and she leans in. “When I already have you?”
“Stop flirting.” She laughs, falling into rhythm with me, our steps aligned. “I’m a happily married woman.”
I grin down at her as we turn and take another slow, long step. We pass Kate as the hot nerd extends a hand, as if offering her the dance. I miss a step and nearly twist an ankle when I trip over Margo.
“Sorry!” Margo yelps. “My bad. Sula says I’m always topping from the bottom. I can’t help but do it tangoing, too.”
I blink, wrenching my gaze away from Kate and focusing on Margo. “You shouldn’t be sorry. That was all my fault.”
Margo’s gaze trails to where mine just left, landing on Kate. Then she smiles up at me. “Actually, you know what, I better make sure Rowan’s not eating another churro.”
“Margo—”
“Thanks for the dance!” She presses a kiss to my cheek, then spins off, leaving me a few measly feet from Kate, who stands alone. With no hot nerd beside her anymore.
Our eyes meet. Kate gives me a dispassionate once-over. “Petruchio.”
“Katerina.”
“Lost your partner pretty quick, didn’t you?” she asks.
I feel myself losing the battle with my self-control as I stare at her.
Be nice, the voice of reason inside me whispers.
Goddammit, I don’t want to be nice to Katerina. As I look at her, every thought racing through my brain is as far from nice as possible.
“What happened to yours?” I ask. “Lost them before you could even dance. Did you make them cry?”
Kate shrugs idly. “He might have shed a tear or two when I declined his offer.”
I cluck my tongue. “Sorely low on your daily quota, then, aren’t you?”
“Oh, the night is young,” she says breezily. “I still have plenty of time to catch up.”
A beat of thick silence falls between us. This is when I should excuse myself, keep my promise to Bill and Jamie, and make myself scarce so the night can pass in peace.
Except I can’t seem to move. I just . . . stand there. Staring at Kate, my gaze drawn once again to her right arm still in its sling. I tell myself not to look too closely, tell my chest not to knot as I see how she stands by herself at the edge of the floor, looking beat-up and proud, her chin held high, that fiery glint in her eyes.
Kate observes me inspecting her and arches an eyebrow. “Can I help you?”
“You can.” I set out my hand.
She stares at it like it’s roadkill.
A smile lifts my mouth. I’m absurdly delighted by that.
What are you doing? You’re supposed to be walking away, not toward her, dammit!
Ignoring that sensible voice, I ask her, “Don’t tell me you haven’t learned the tango in all your worldly travels.”
Slowly, Kate drags her gaze up from my hand and meets my eyes. “I’m . . . passably familiar with it.”
“Well.” I take a step closer, hand still outstretched. “Let’s see it, then.”
“I have one functional arm,” she says silkily. “As you were so happy to remind me the other night when you ran into me—”
“You ran into me.”
She rolls her eyes, but then her expression shifts as she takes me in, standing there, hand outstretched. Waiting. Our gazes hold, and our surroundings dim to a blur of moving bodies, the heavy thrum of the bandonion and guitar’s melody.
Prove your family wrong, I silently beg her. Show me I haven’t fucked this up like they say I have. Show me what you always do—that fire you throw my way, that I throw right back at you.