Page 104 of The Temporary Fiancée
After a moment’s deliberation, I nod, smiling at him. It’s just one dance—and it’s just a waltz, at that. Harmless enough.
I let him guide me out onto the dance floor. One of his hands finds my waist, and I hold the other as we fall in step with each other.
“What’s your name?” I ask him as we twirl around, surrounded by other pairs.
“Justin,” he says. It’s difficult to hear him over the music. “How about you?”
“Olivia.”
He smiles. “It’s nice to meet you, Olivia.”
I don’t reply, mostly because I would have to raise my voice over the music, but also because I don’t want to give him the wrong idea about this dance.
We turn in slow circles, doing our best not to step on each other’s feet. I’m a halfway decent dancer, and so is he, but my six-inch Stilettos are making both of our jobs difficult. We’re starting to get the hang of it, though, when a hand falls on my shoulder.
I jump, startled, and turn to see Reed. He stares coolly at Justin, not meeting my gaze.
“Apologies,” he says smoothly. “But I think I’ll be cutting in, now.”
I expect Justin to shrug and let it go, but he scowls at Reed. He doesn’t let go of my hand. “The song’s not over.”
“I’m aware of that,” Reed says, his voice no longer polite. “If you don’t mind, though, I’d like you to get your hands off of my fiancé.”
I catch my breath, surprised. A shadow flits across Justin’s face, and he drops my hand, taking a step away from us.
“I didn’t realize,” he says. For a moment, the two men exchange a cold, unfriendly glare. Uncomfortable with the open hostility, I shift behind Reed slightly.
Then he turns away from the dance floor. I follow him as he stalks to the ballroom’s exit, my heart fluttering. He seems upset, and angry, but I don’t want to ask him what’s wrong until we’re alone.
Besides, I have a theory. The way he cut in to interrupt that dance… if I didn’t know better, I’d suspect he wasjealous.
Reed leads me out into the hallway, a little ways away from the grand, open doors of the ballroom. He steps into a small alcove near a window, where we’re sheltered enough to have a private conversation.
Even here, in this forgotten corner of the building, the view of the city’s skyline is incredible. For a few seconds, I’m drawn in by the glittering lights of New York at night.
After a second or two, though, I manage to pull my attention back to him. His jaw is tight, like he’s restraining his anger.
“What was that?” he demands.
I fold my arms. “What was what?” I reply, even though I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Who was that guy? Did you even know him?”
I raise an eyebrow. “No. Did you?”
He shakes his head, exasperated. “You were dancing with another man. What were you thinking?”
“I don’t know,” I shoot back. “Maybe that I was alone at a party surrounded by strangers. Maybe that there was a live band and a dance floor and heaskedand it was harmless?—”
“He had his hand on your waist,” he snaps. His voice lowers, and he says, “I don’t like seeing another man touch you.”
My heart skips a beat; hesoundsjealous. It makes me feel almost guilty, but I can’t deny that a part of me likes it—likes the idea that he’s rattled just from seeing me so close to another man.
“Why?” I ask him. “Why don’t you? Why does it matter to you?”
I hold my breath as he hesitates. It could be because of our arrangement, or… or it could be for another reason. A reason neither of us are willing to say out loud. But if he admits it—if it’s out in the open, at last…
“We signed a contract,” he says finally, stiffly. “To all of these people, we’re supposed to be engaged. My family is here. We have high-powered friends here. I don’t want there to be a scandal.”
