Page 130 of Dial B for Billionaire

“Unimpressed by expensive suits and bigger egos?”

“Still can't stand me, then.”

“Not even a little.”

“Perfect.” Then he holds out his elbow to her. “Can I interest you in a dance? I can hear the band starting up in the main ballroom.”

“Oh, fuck yes. Please get me a safe distance away from this fire.”

Serena catches my eye and mouths, “Call me if you need me,” before letting Caleb lead her toward the ballroom, leaving Bennett and me in the kind of silence that feels like standing on the edge of a cliff.

“You look tired,” I say, because it's safer than saying what I really want to.

“I haven't been sleeping well.” His eyes never leave mine. “The penthouse feels... empty.”

The simple admission makes my chest ache. I've missed him too, missed his warmth beside me, the sound of his breathing in the dark.

“Bennett—”

“Layla, I need to?—”

We both stop, and a ghost of a smile touches his lips. “Ladies first.”

I take a steadying breath. “Why am I here, Bennett? Really?”

“Because I need you to hear me out.” His jaw tightens. “And I knew you wouldn't take my calls.” He gestures toward a quiet corner away from the crowd. “Five minutes. That's all I'm asking.”

I should refuse. Should maintain my distance until I've figured out what I want. But the intensity in his eyes has me unsure of anything.

“You went to a lot of trouble to get me here just to talk, Bennett,” I say, nodding toward the dress, the exclusive invitation.

He steps closer until I can feel the heat radiating from his body. “I believe conversation is encouraged at these events.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Then let’s not talk.” His voice drops to that low register that always undoes me. “Dance with me instead.”

The invitation hangs between us like a reckless promise. Dancing means touching, and touching Bennett might unravel me completely.

“Dancing won't solve anything,” I say, even as my body sways slightly toward him.

“Neither will standing here avoiding the conversation we need to have.” His eyes never leave mine, that intense blue gaze that always sees too much. “One dance, Layla. Then you can walk away if that's what you still want.”

I shouldn't. Every logical part of me screams to maintain distance, to protect myself from this man whodismantled my world. But logic has never been my strong suit when it comes to Bennett Mercer.

“One dance,” I agree, my voice barely audible over the soft music filtering in from the ballroom.

Relief flashes across his face, so raw and genuine. He offers his hand, and when I place mine in his, the familiar warmth of his skin sends electricity racing up my arm.

The ballroom is a vision of crystal chandeliers and midnight blue drapery, matching the theme of my dress so perfectly it can't be coincidence. Bennett leads me through the crowd with that easy confidence, his hand at the small of my back both protective and possessive. When we reach the dance floor, he turns to face me, one hand taking mine while the other settles at my waist.

“Just one dance,” I say, more to convince myself than him.

Bennett's thumb brushes across my knuckles. “One dance,” he agrees.

But as the string quartet begins a slow waltz and he pulls me into his arms, we both know it won't be just one of anything.

Not with us.

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