Page 48 of Ella Gets the D
“Yeah.” My voice shakes to push out the word.
The sun relaxes its grip on the day as it fades to twilight. Cotton candy pink clouds stretch across a deepening blue sky. The string lights overhead cast a firefly glow on the remaining party guests, who are mingling and swaying to classic soul throwbacks.
My feet have yet to listen to the internal alarm that reminds it’s Haile and Jackson’s bedtime. I can’t remember the last time they stayed up so late. Good thing tomorrow is a holiday.
The kids have been inside with Mrs. Brooke, Duke’s grandmother, while I attempt to keep up with Uncle Skeeter on the dance floor. His sixty-four years haven’t slowed him down. We hustled, two-stepped, turned, and dipped. Skeeter might be a balding banker, but Langston’s line brother still has the energy of a teenager.
I’m ready to bow out when a familiar voice from behind startles my steps. “Mind if I cut in?” I still and remind myself to breathe.
Uncle Skeeter looks over my shoulder and nods. “Absolutely.” He flashes me a smile and tips his head. “Ella, it’s been a pleasure, sugar. You keep an old man young,” he says in his Georgia twang. With a wink, he disappears into a small crowd near the bar.
Julian and I caught eyes too many times to count tonight. We kept our distance but stayed in each other’s orbit, always a couple yards away, with secrets filling the void between us. One look turned into lingering stares that froze time and our ability to turn away.
My legs snap shut when his darkening gaze traces the lines of my curves. In no way am I showing enough skin to trigger a respectability critic. My sundress hits right above my ankles and only shows off my upper back and arms. But the way Julian’s eyes sweep over my body has me ready to question if he has x-ray vision and knows I’m panty-free in his parents’ backyard.
“You look incredible.”
Not good or nice.Incredible.
My brain stalls at the compliment and the cedar and sandalwood cologne that once again short-circuits my ability to not be a blabbering idiot. It’s at a two, and I’m already overheating.
“You look—”Shoot, think. “Ivory is nice on you.” I clear my throat. “You look good too.”
He steps into my personal space and reaches for my hand. Warmth travels through my fingertips and up my chest. “Still have one more in you?” His hand wraps around my waist to pull me closer and finds a home on my hip. The other guides my wrist to the back of his neck. His touch lingers on my pulse point and ignites goosebumps on the slow glide down my forearm.
Not once do his eyes leave mine. “This okay?” His question is a murmur that mimics the soothing circles his thumb traces on my hip.
My knees quiver, an internal warning that my legs are seconds from giving out. I mentally shake myself from his lure and wrap my other hand around his neck. The act chews away the little space between us. Just a few more inches, and our belly buttons won’t be the only body parts rubbing together.
The intro to Marvin Gaye’s “I Want You” builds as Julian guides us to the center of the dance floor. His hips sway to the sultry mix of bass and percussion, summoning mine. “Come here,” he says against my ear.
Our bodies press and our breaths mix. My head finds a home on his shoulder, and I close my eyes and allow myself to get lost in the moment. A passing breeze catches the tips of my tendrils in a loose bun and blows warm air on the back of my neck.
The sigh I exhale releases a breath I’ve held for far too long. My separation has forced me to rely on others in a way I haven’t before. When you aren’t trying to save the day and be a superhero in someone else’s story, you have room to pour into yourself. The pain of picking up the shards of my life doesn’t compare to the love shared with friends by my side. With Julian.
“I got you, El.” Julian presses his cheek to the side of my head and moves us around the dance floor like we’re the only two people here.
The song ends, peeling away the fantasy for reality. Even if time and healing were on my side, divorcing a wealthy man for a young bachelor with an even bigger bank account and more women chasing after him is foolish. I already know how that story ends, and I refuse to put my children—or my heart—through another tragedy.
Julian searches my face, his gaze tracking the faded remnants of a smile. He frowns. “You okay?”
The invisible thread stretched between us tugs. How does a man I met a week ago recognize the self-doubt twisting my features? He sees all of me and makes me want things I shouldn’t.
“Yeah.” I take a step back and slap on a smile two sizes too small. “Thanks for the dance—and happy birthday again!” Damn my nerves for making my tone too chipper.
Julian rubs a brow and stares at me with a blank look. “Thanks.”
“Did you have fun last night?”
“I got dinner and caught some jazz,” he says with a cautious nod.
“Oh, fun.” My excitement is complete bull.
Why am I giving him the third degree? He’s not my man. I need to go in the house, grab my kids, and leave before I say something ridiculous.
“I hope your date went well.”
Like that.
