Page 5 of His Son's Brid
"You're blushing," Tiana says, delighted.
"I'm not—"
"You are definitely blushing. I don't think I've ever seen you blush. Not even when Marcus tried to serenade you."
"That's because Marcus made me want to die, not—" I stop myself, grab my drink, drain the rest of it. The vodka doesn't help. If anything, it makes the heat worse, makes me brave and stupid and dangerously close to doing something insane like walking up there and climbing into his lap.
Chloe's grinning like Christmas came early. "Rory. Hey. Look at me."
I tear my eyes away from him, and it's actually painful. Chloe's face is pure mischief.
"Go talk to him."
"What? No."
"Why not?"
"Because I—because that's not—" I flounder, trying to find a reason that doesn't sound completely insane. "I don't just walk up to strange men in clubs."
"You've never had a reason to before. Now you do?"
"He could be anyone. A serial killer. A—"
"A really hot older guy who's been eye-fucking you for the past five minutes?" Chloe supplies. "Yeah. Terrible fate. However, will you survive."
My phone buzzes. All three of us jump, then laugh, nerves turning into something lighter. I check the screen. Dad. Of course.
Call me when you get home. We need to discuss your return.
The reminder is a bucket of ice water. Right. Return home. Get married off. Become someone's wife, someone's possession, someone's anything-but-mine.
Four days of freedom left.
I look back at the VIP section, and the silver-haired man is still there, still watching. But there's something in his expression now that wasn't there before. Something that looks almost like... recognition. Like he's seeing something in me that he didn't expect to find.
My underwear is ruined. I can feel how wet I am, how ready, and it's mortifying and thrilling and I've never wanted anything as badly as I want to know what his hands feel like.
I could talk to him. Just walk up there and—
"Don't overthink it," Tiana says softly. She knows me too well, knows I'm already building a thousand reasons why this is a bad idea. "For once in your life, Aurora, just do something without calculating the risks."
"That's literally the opposite of what they taught us in accounting."
"This isn't accounting. This is..." she gestures vaguely at the VIP section, at him, at whatever this electricity is between us. "This is living."
The song changes. Something slower, heavier, all bass and dark promises. Around us, couples start pulling each other closer on the dance floor.
He stands.
My heart kicks into overdrive.
He's tall. Taller than I thought, probably six-two or six-three, and the way he moves—God. There's this controlled power in it, like every gesture is intentional, nothing wasted. Muscles shiftunder that expensive suit. He says something to the person next to him, doesn't wait for a response, and starts walking.
Toward the stairs.
Toward the main floor.
Toward me.
