Page 56 of Boiling Point
“To being exactly where I want to be,” I said, raising my glass. “And in the most splendid company.”
Her lips curled as she raised her glass. “I’ll drink to that.”
I ordered us a few small plates—warm brie with figs and walnuts, wild mushroom flatbread, and a citrusy beet salad I thought she’d like. She looked quietly relieved not to have to navigate the menu alone.
“You do this well,” she said, watching me with faint amusement.
“You mean ordering food?”
“I mean…taking the lead. The ease, the confidence—it suits you.”
“Don’t be fooled,” I said, voice dipping low. “Last week I locked myself out of my office and had to call campus security to let me in.”
She bit back a laugh.
“In my defense,” I added, smoothing the edge of my voice, “I was a bit distracted that morning. Couldn’t stop thinking about a certain someone.”
Her eyes flicked to mine—sparkling, curious, just a touch shy—and that glance nearly undid me all over again. “Mm-hmm.” She took another sip of champagne. “Still a good look.”
As the jazz trio transitioned into something soft and swaying, I reached for her hand and stood.
She glanced up, surprised. “Where are we going?”
“This,” I said, guiding her toward the dance floor, “is why I booked this place.”
“To feed me mushrooms and fancy cheese?”
I leaned in, brushing my lips against her temple. “Any excuse to hold you in my arms.”
She slid her hand into mine. “You’re making it really hard not to fall for you.”
“I sincerely hope so.”
The lights were low, the room humming with warmth and quiet elegance. As we stepped onto the small dance floor, I settled my hand at her waist and drew her close. She hesitated just a moment before she placed a hand on my shoulder, the other resting lightly in mine.
“I should warn you,” she said as I led her into the first slow step, “I’m not a great dancer.”
“Good thing I am,” I murmured, smiling down at her. “Years of lessons. Hated every minute.”
“Until now?”
“Until now.”
She looked up, a hint of wonder softening her expression. “Was that your charming way of admitting you enjoy this?”
I traced my thumb gently along her spine. “With you? Yes.”
We swayed, the music wrapping around us like silk. Her body fit perfectly against mine, and everything else—the restaurant, the rules, the world waiting back home—faded to the periphery.
The song tapered into a lingering chord, and I let it carry us through one final step before guiding her back to the table. Gabrielle’s hand remained in mine, her fingers warm and certain. She was quiet as we slid into the booth—the soft rustle of silk against leather, the brush of her knee against mine. Shereached for her champagne but didn’t drink, only turned the glass, watching the bubbles rise.
Her cheeks were flushed, likely not from the alcohol.
“What is it?” I asked, careful not to press.
She gave me a sideways look—half-curious, half-shy. “How do you know how to do all of this?”
“All of what?”
