Page 55 of Gold Rush

“I am relaxed,” I lie.

My unease should be rooted in awareness of how many people in this room are staring at us. Instead, it mainly has to do with how close his lips are. If he kisses me again⁠—

“You’re a good dancer.”

I blink at him, taken aback by the compliment. We’re out of earshot of the nearest table, and he sounds totally sincere. Is this part of the act, or is this genuine?

“I took lessons. For cotillion.”

“So did Lena Hamilton. Yet I had bruises on my feet for weeks, thanks to her heels.”

“Probably because she spent most of the practice sessions arguing with Mallory Marlowe about which of them would get to ask you to the dance first instead of learning the proper steps.”

“You’re saying it was my fault my feet were mutilated?”

“Yes.”

He grins.

“What happened with work?” I ask.

“I finished early.”

“Is that code for a summer associate helping you?”

Flynn doesn’t smile this time, although the teasing was intentional. “No.”

I clear my throat. “Well, good. I’m glad you were able to come.”

“You are?”

“It’s the plan, right?”

“I think your parents like me,” he says seriously.

I smile. “Of course they like you. They’ve always liked you.”

“They like me as their nephew’s friend. That’s very different from liking the guy dating their daughter.”

“Oh,” is the best response I can come up with. Between that lame reply and the earlier explanation of my supposed dancing skills, I’m not contributing much to the conversation.

At least I haven’t stepped on his feet yet.

“Graham Clarence is having a party tonight.”

“Okay …”

I know who Graham is since Dalton wasn’t a huge school. But I don’t think I’ve seen Graham since he graduated. I don’t know or care about what he’s done since, inclusive of any party.

“We should go.”

“To the party?” I question, continuing my streak of stupid comments.

Obviously, he means to the party that he just mentioned, and that shouldn’t be such a startling concept. We’re pretending to be together. Him showing up to a party solo won’t do anything to sell that act.

“I’ll pick you up at nine,” he states, then spins me away right as I start to protest.

A complete coincidence, I’m sure.