When you've had too much champagne and made too many daring choices, you know that fluttery, fizzy feeling?
Yes. When you're spinning across a ballroom floor with Ethan freaking Blackwood, multiply that by ten.
He danced as if he was a man who was certain that the world was his. And I kind of believed it too, with his hand at the small of my back and my fingers gripping his shoulder as if I were a black-tie waltz.
His breath brushed my ear as he whispered, "You dance well." "For someone who showed up late to the party."
I tried to sound breezy as I said, "I bake better." "Dancing is more of a survival skill combined with a hobby."
His laugh rumbled through his chest, low and amused, the kind that makes you want to say something else just to hear it again. "Survival skill?"
I gave a shrug. "You've never had to use a clipboard and two uncoordinated feet to impress the mother of a wedding client."
The music ended. Once again, the real world whirled around us as I took a step back, complete with waiters, laughter, and chandeliers. The truth.
"Drink?" he inquired.
"Only if a paper umbrella is included."
In an attempt to appear as though I didn't use a staff ID that had previously served as a coaster in my apartment, I sat on a tall velvet stool as he escorted me to the bar.
With quiet ease, Ethan ordered a neat bourbon for himself and something gold and bubbly for me from the bartender. It gleamed like liquid courage in the glass.
I almost choked when I took a sip.
I coughed, "Oh my God." "Lemonade is not what this is."
His forehead raised. It's a French 75. elegant, risky, and more powerful than it appears.
As I blinked the sting out of my eyes, I remarked, "Essentially... like me."
He grinned. "Just like you."
I was going to say something clever, something that would stick in his mind after tonight, when a woman in a black dress with sequins came up, all gloss and elegance and stilettos sharp enough to be weapons.
She purred, completely ignoring me, "Ethan." "You're there. Oh, your drink.
She looked from him to the glass in my hand. "You have it already?"
Ethan straightened slightly and then glanced down at the same drink she was holding.
Oh.
Embarrassing violin screech.
"I believe this one's mine," she said with a tight smile, lifting her glass. "This implies..."
I glanced between the drinks and blinked.
I was holding a French 75 that had been intended for someone else.
"I took a drink from your girlfriend." I blinked at Ethan as I spoke.
With ease, he declared, "She is not my girlfriend."
The woman's mouth twitched. "Not anymore."
Probably because she hadn't borrowed her shoes from a thrift store clearance bin, she spun on her heel and vanished into the crowd with a grace I could never match.
I slid off the stool and said, "I should go." "Before I unintentionally take someone's husband or purse."
Ethan gently grabbed my wrist. "Remain. It's been years since I've enjoyed one of these activities this much."
I gasped.
This was insane. Ethan Blackwood asked me to stay as if I wasn't the most uncomfortable person in the room after we had a mixed drink and a borrowed dress.
However, beneath the billionaire's cool, there was something genuine and almost vulnerable in his voice.
I took a seat again.
Additionally, the girl wearing the borrowed dress laughed with a building owner and drank the wrong cocktail.
Not a big deal.