Page 83 of Not Safe for Work
After a few minutes, Rafe takes my glass and places it on a table.
“Wanna dance?” Rafe holds out his hand, and I study him.
“What?” I ask.
We’ve gone from hand-holding to dancing, and not one part of me isn’t wondering what could come next if I’m brave enough to let him in. Can I trust Rafe?
The strange thing is that I feel like I can. We spent so many years butting heads, but maybe that was also a form of trust I placed in him. Nothing we ever did crossed a line, and I wonder if some part of me always recognized that I could push him because he would never have gone too far. Maybe I was testing to see if he’d always come back.
“We’re going to dance,” he answers. “That’s what you do when you crash a wedding.”
It’s not a question. Just a statement that underscores the enormity of how far we’ve come in such a short time. We still haven’t talked about the kiss. We’re still pretending it never happened, but it’s the only thing I can think about. I’m somewhere between a blissful release of endorphins and impending doom as I wonder if it was all just a fluke, never to be repeated.
But I’m almost positive he’s thinking about it, too. His eyes dip to my mouth and then lower to the not entirely accidental siren call of my exposed skin before quickly looking up. Every inch of me tightens.
“Is that okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I smile and slip my hand into his, a shiver rushing to my toes.
Maybe we can finally become something else. Maybe it’s time to file away my sharp edges. Maybe I needed to hold him at a distance until I was ready to risk my heart again.
He leads me into the center and wraps an arm around my waist, pressing his body to mine. Over the next few hours, we dance and mingle. I’ve never smiled so much or laughed so hard. We cheer when the couple cuts the cake (camouflaging ourselves behind their guests) and discuss its merits as we devour an enormous slice.
“Moist and has a good crumb,” Rafe says, chewing thoughtfully. “Icing is a little sweet.”
“I think it’s perfect,” I say, licking a dollop off my finger. Rafe’s eyes follow my tongue with a sort of hunger that makes me weak in the knees.
“You and your fondness for sugary icing. You wound my baker’s heart.”
“You said it was cute,” I counter, taking another large bite and chewing with vigor, making ostentatiously appreciative noises.
“I don’t think that’s what I said,” he replies drily, his mouth crooking into a smile as I offer him a half-hearted glare.
We polish off our cake just before a slow song comes on the loudspeakers. Rafe takes my hand and pulls me into the middle of the dance floor, placing his warm hands on my waist.
“Now we’re slow dancing?” I loop my arms around his neck.
“It’s just a night of endless firsts,” he answers, pulling me in closer, his hands sweeping up my back, along my exposed skin. Fire. It sounds so clichéd and ridiculous, but actual fire runs through my veins as I suck in a breath.
He pulls back and reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear. “You aren’t cute, Tris, you’re utterly fucking beautiful.”
His low voice sends me into freefall.
“Are we going to talk about it?”
We both know I mean the kiss.
His head tips, and his hand slides to my shoulder and then down my arm, pulling up a shiver.
“We could talk about it, but honestly, I’d rather just do it again.”
My eyebrow arches. “I thought you said you shouldn’t have done it?”
That earns me a rueful smile. “It just threw me off. Don’t listen to me. I’m a complete fool.”
I snort. “Well, that is true.”
His expression turns serious a moment later. “Tris. Do you think we could move past this thing between us? We’ve been sharing a room for two weeks and somehow made it work.”
