Page 60 of Dating Goals
“So many beautiful people,” she murmurs. “I feel like I’m in a movie.”
“You’d be the star,” I say before I can stop myself.
She blushes, the pink in her cheeks making her eyes even bluer.
“This dating coach thing is working too well. I might actually believe you.”
“Good. That’s the point.”
My hand finds the small of her back as I guide her through the crowd. The silky fabric of her dress is cool beneath my palm, but I can feel the warmth of her skin underneath. My brain short-circuits for a second.
Focus, McGregor. You’re here on a mission.
I scan the room, looking for any sign of Malcolm Chase or the FIS agents who are supposedly here. The problem is, I have no idea what they look like. They could be anyone. The bartender, the woman in the gold dress laughing too loudly, the elderly gentleman examining a painting in the corner.
Or maybe the guy staring directly at us from across the room?
He’s mid-forties, clean-cut in a way that screams “government official,” and he’s watching us with an intensity that makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. I catch his eye and give him a subtle nod.
The man’s face flushes bright red, and he quickly turns away, nearly spilling his champagne in the process.
Hmm. Either that’s the worst secret agent in history, or…
“What are you looking at?” Anika asks, following my gaze.
“Nothing. Just that guy who was staring at you.”
“At me?” She laughs. “I doubt it. Everyone here looks like they walked off a runway.”
“Trust me, he was definitely checking you out.”
A strange possessiveness surges through me, and I slide my arm around her waist, drawing her closer. She fits against my side perfectly, like she was designed to be there.
“What was that for?” she asks, eyes sparkling.
“Just making sure everyone knows you’re with me tonight.”
The gesture feels right, even though I have no claim to her. She’s here for dating practice, I remind myself. For some other guy named Thomas. The thought makes something twist uncomfortably in my chest, and I pull her slightly closer. We’re supposed to look like a couple, after all. But there’s something undeniably real about the way my heart races when she leans into me.
A waiter glides by with a tray of champagne flutes, and I snag two, handing one to Anika. Her fingers brush mine, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm.
“To practice dates,” I say, clinking my glass against hers.
“To practice,” she echoes, but something flickers in her eyes that makes my heart do a double backflip.
We wander through the party, passing clusters of wealthy investors discussing portfolios and profit margins. I should be listening for information about Malcolm Chase, but I can’t focus on anything except the woman beside me.
“So, this is how the other half lives,” Anika whispers, as she takes in the crystal chandeliers and ice sculptures.
“More like the other one percent,” I reply. “My mom would lose her mind in this place. She’d be wrapping appetizers in napkins to take home.”
Anika laughs, the sound light and musical. “My mother would be interrogating the staff about their astrological signs.”
“So,” Anika says, leaning closer so I can hear her over the ambient noise. Her clean scent fills my senses. “Tell me something I don’t know about Griffin McGregor.”
“I can play the harmonica,” I offer. “But only the first eight notes of ‘Piano Man.’”
She laughs, the sound warming me more than the champagne. “Impressive. What else?”
