Page 15 of This

I’m drinking my wine down to an acceptable level when the chair next to me pulls out. Dane sits down.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

He flicks the place card in front of him. “I might have spiced up the seating arrangement a little. Looking at you from across the table all night was not an option.”

“Now who’s Jimmy going to talk to about his divorce?”

Dane makes a face, setting down his beer. “Who’s Jimmy?”

“Keaton’s uncle. The one you switched chairs with.”

He shakes his head, about to say something until Ford walks up behind us. His eyes dart between Dane and me before stopping on the table between us.

“Hey, Ford.” I tack on a smile because he seems flustered. “This is Dane, Liam’s cousin.”

“Hey,” he says, making one more sweep between the two of us. “They said I was over here … somewhere.”

Dane points across from me. “I think I saw your name over there.” He winks at me.

I start to get an idea of what happened and spot Uncle Jimmy a few tables over where I saw Ford’s name earlier. Dane and I aren’t the only ones wreaking havoc on Keaton’s carefully constructed seating chart. Unfortunately for Ford, the game of musical chairs hasn’t quite worked out as he'd planned. He reluctantly goes to the other side of the table, his right hand rubbing up and down the left side of his jaw. All of his brothers do the same thing when annoyed. Same hand. Same side.

“Great memory,” he says. “Dane, was it?”

Dane nods. “You and Bennett must know each other through Keaton. Everyone here under thirty seems to be another one of her cousins.”

“Yeah, Bennett and I have known each other a long time.”

“She’s never mentioned you though.” Dane rests his arm on the back of my chair, prompting another pass of Ford’s hand over his jaw. “So, I’m guessing you don’t know her very well.”

It’s the last thing he says through dinner.

Other than pausing for bites,the only times Ford stops talking is after asking, “Did you know Bennett (fill in the blank with a fact about me, such as I played the trumpet in band or slept through most of prom)?”

Dane shakes his head and sometimes glances at me out of the corner of his eye, but most of the time, he just appears bored. He even starts texting under the table. And the more uninterested Dane, the smugger Ford. I can’t decide whether he’s trying to chase him off by proving how well he knows me or by making me sound like the dullest person alive. Either way, it seems to work.

We’re finishing our entrees when a higher power intervenes. Ford’s phone lights up on the table. He hesitates, hand hovering, but eventually excuses himself to answer. I relax in my seat, hoping he gets lost on his way back.

As soon as he walks away, Dane’s entire demeanor changes. His body shifts toward me, a smile spreading over his face, and he pulls his phone out from under the table.

“First off”—he checks his screen—“AP classes all through high school? You’re a nerd. With such a huge brain, there is no excuse for failing your driving test twice. And as for prom, tell me the truth—was your date just so terrible that you pretended to oversleep?” His expression goes serious again as he leans in and points at his face. “Trumpet. Four years. Marching band. Tell me that doesn’t turn you on.”

My mouth falls open. “I didn’t think you were even listening to him.”

“Not only was I listening, but I was also taking notes.” He sets his phone in my hand. “The guy was telling me everything I needed to know about Bennett Alexus Ross. I couldn’t risk him realizing it and have him stop.”

I read through his thoughts on everything Ford said, and he has plenty. “You played him?”

“Like my fucking trumpet,” he says. “I feel kind of bad though. It sounds like he’s dedicated a lot of time, and I kind of lucked my way in.”

“And what exactly have you lucked your way into?” I ask, handing his phone back.

“I’m not entirely sure, but I’ll let you know when I figure it out.”

He pushes my hair behind my ear. We’re closer than necessary for a conversation we stop having. Surrounded by people yet completely alone while he once again stares into my eyes. I press my lips together and glance away, but his fingertips trail along my jaw, bringing my face back.

“Heels or not,” he says, his voice low, “I want you right now.”

A blush creeps up my neck, and his gaze dips and slowly rakes over me, staying in certain places longer than others. I can practically feel him touching me, my chest rising faster. He locks in on my thighs, on the extra half-inch of skin on display when I shift and the hem of my dress slips up.

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