Page 59 of Check & Chase
“Is that a real rule?”
“No idea, but it sounds good.” His dimple appears as he grins down at me. “Want a drink? I saw Anna mixing something called ‘Witch’s Brew’ earlier.”
“God, yes. Liquid courage sounds perfect right now.”
The kitchen is slightly less crowded. He navigates us toward a large punch bowl filled with an ominous purple concoction, complete with dry ice.
“One Witch’s Brew,” he says, ladling the mixture into a plastic cup. “Fair warning: Anna’s heavy-handed with the vodka.”
I take a cautious sip and nearly choke. “Jesus. Is there any mixer in this at all?”
But I take another sip anyway, welcoming the burn and the immediate warmth that spreads through my chest.
For the next hour, we circulate through the party, playing our roles. He introduces me to people I haven’t met yet, his hand never leaving the small of my back. I lean into him when we laugh, touch his arm when he speaks, all the little intimacies of a new couple.
It feels surprisingly natural, as if we’ve been doing this for months.
Several drinks in, the Witch’s Brew has done its job, softening the edges of my anxiety. The party has grown rowdier, the music louder, the dance floor more crowded.
“Dance with me,” he requests, nodding toward the sunroom where bodies move in the dim, colored lights.
I hesitate, eyeing his crutch. “Should you be dancing with that knee?”
“I can manage one slow dance,” he insists. “Besides, Tyler and Carina just headed that way.”
Of course they did.
“One dance. And no weight on that knee.”
The sunroom has been transformed—furniture pushed aside, colored lights casting red and purple shadows across the writhing bodies. The music pulses, something low and rhythmic with a heavy bass that vibrates in my chest.
He finds us a spot near the edge, where he can lean against a pillar for support. He tucks his remaining crutch beside it, then pulls me toward him, his hands settling on my hips.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice low, barely audible over the music.
I nod, slipping my arms around his neck as we begin to move together. It’s not really dancing, more like swaying in place, but it’s enough. And people are definitely watching—I can feel curious gazes on us, including Tyler’s burning stare from across the room.
“He’s watching,” I murmur, my lips close to his ear. “Looking murderous.”
“Good,” he replies, his breath warm against my neck. “That’s the point, right?”
“Right,” I agree, though in this moment, with his body pressed against mine, Tyler is the last thing on my mind.
The song changes, something slower but more intense, and his hands slide from my hips to the small of my back, drawing me closer. We’re pressed together now, my chest against his, our faces inches apart. I can smell his cologne, feel the heat radiating from his body, see the flecks of gray in his blue eyes.
“Still okay?” he asks, and there’s something in his voice—a roughness, a question beyond the simple check-in.
“Still okay,” I confirm, though my heart is racing for reasons that have nothing to do with our audience.
We move together, finding a rhythm that feels as natural as breathing. This close, I can feel every plane of his body, including the unmistakable evidence of his arousal pressed against me. My breath catches, heat pooling low in my belly.
He notices—of course he does—and there’s a moment where I think he’ll pull away, apologize, maintain the fiction that this is all for show. Instead, his eyes darken, his grip on my waist tightening slightly.
“Problem, Blondie?” he murmurs, a challenge in his voice.
I should say yes. Should create distance. Should remember all the reasons this is a bad idea.
Instead, I press closer. “Nope.”
