Page 9 of Dating Your Grumpy Neighbor
“Whoa—I don’t know,” I whisper back honestly.
He surprises me again when the corner of his mouth ticks up into a half-smile. "That's okay. You will."
Emmett stands, and I realize that my hand is still in his. He waits for me to grab my clutch, and I follow along behind him with the rest of the crowd as we all head out of the ballroom and into the reception tent outside.
The warm summer air would be perfect if I weren't so nervous about what to say about that kiss. It was the last thing I expected Emmett to do, but that seems to fall in line with the fact that I don't really know him well enough to think that I can predict what he will do next.
I’m not sure how he does it, but Emmett is acting cool as can be as we get our drinks and hors d’oeuvres before the reception begins. I even catch him smiling at the ring bearer in his little suit dancing alone on the empty dance to the pop music pumping in over the speakers.
“You should join him.” I elbow Emmett.
He quirks one eyebrow up and stares down at me. “You think I wouldn’t?”
I laugh. “I one hundred percent don’t think you would.”
“Yeah. You’re probably right.” He takes my glass and plate and sets them down on a nearby table with his, and holds out his hand to me.
“What?” I look around at the steady crowd of people walking into the tent. “We can’t. It’s too soon.”
“You aren’t going to make that little guy dance all by himself, are you?”
“What has gotten into you?” I ask as I take his hand.
He pulls me close into his arms. “The Sunshine girl next door put up with my grumpy ass for too long. And I’m about to show her that I’m not always that guy.”
I can’t hold back the giggle as we walk out onto the dance floor, all the eyes in the place watching us and wondering what the heck we are doing. There’s no way the hens in my family I was concerned about facing today will have something to say to me later, but right now, I don’t care.
The little boy continues to dance as though nobody is watching, and Emmett and I try to keep up next to him. A smattering of other people join us on the dance floor, the bubbles of the flowing champagne already loosening some of their inhibitions.
Two more songs in, I feel Emmett tense beside me as we slow dance to a classic Dean Martin. His gaze is focused over my shoulder, and as he turns me, I see some woman I don't recognize watching us.
“Who is she?” I ask.
He blinks like my question has snapped him out of an old memory and returned him to this moment.
“Who?”
“The woman whose expression singlehandedly coined the expression if looks could kill.”
“Oh, you caught that?”
“Kind of hard to miss,” I laugh.
“That’s my ex-fiancée’s best friend.”
I try to sneak another peek over my shoulder at her with much more interest. The woman is typing something into her phone and then lifts it to snap a picture of us. I realize too late what she’s doing and turn around too late.
Emmett doesn’t seem at all uneasy that she’s clearly sending that picture to his ex. Jealously hits me like a punch to the gut when my mind conjures up an image of what I expect Emmett’s ex to look like. In my head, she's a blonde supermodel who walks the runways in New York during Fashion Week. How can my dark hair and curves compete?
“Do you want to go talk to her?” I ask, hearing the uncertainty in my voice.
Emmett looks like I just suggested we charter a helicopter to take us to the top of an active volcano so that we could take a dip.
“I’m exactly where I want to be,” he says.
