Page 34 of Icing Hearts

People bump into him from behind but he’s a fortress, immovable against the pressure.

“Like you care.”

Tory sucks his teeth and spins me around. I wobble, thanks to the numbing effect of the alcohol, but his steadiness makes me look graceful as we move to the music. Tory hugs me tight around the waist, looking beyond my shoulder, lips close to my cheek when he says, “I think you know I do, Clara.”

“Actually, it’s really hard to figure out what you want sometimes. Your actions are totally confusing, and if I wasn’t so tipsy I’d have a bigger word to say.”

“So much to say about my behavior, but what about yours?”

“What about mine? I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“That wasn’t a tantrum you just threw at the pong table?” He raises his eyebrows at me, thinking he’s making a point.

I shrug. “No. We were gonna lose, and I wanted to dance. It was a completely reasonable response.” Except I slur my words, and “reasonable” comes out more like “reap-able.”

Tory snorts a laugh and I spin to face him, curling my lip in annoyance. “Sorry,” he says. “I mean, come on.” His eyes plead with me to see the humor, but I don’t want to. “Can you just dance, please?” he asks, and I realize I’ve stopped moving.

Please is the magic word, and when it passes through Tory’s lips, I melt. Every single time. It doesn’t hurt that he looks sweet enough to bite and gives me puppy dog eyes. I want to smack him for unraveling me and sending any bit of resolve I muster into vapor.

But I wrap my arms tighter around his neck and let him hold my hips against his so firmly I think I might crumble into dust.

My fingers find their way back to his hair, just above his neck. His sure hands send my skin abuzz, and my heart pounds in my ears in time with the bass. I close my eyes and focus on his touch.

No one moves like him. Vince let me lead, but not Victory Amato. When we dance, he is in charge. I think it’s that swarthy Italian thing. All that passion has to go somewhere, and he’s always so grumpy, I guess it goes to his hips…and hands.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” I tell him with a poke to his nose when the song ends. We sway slowly, foreheads nearly touching.

“Mmm.” He nods, unsurprised. “I can handle your anger, Charity.”

Henry stumbles over and yells, “Clara, dance with me.” He holds onto the second a in my name for a few beats too long. This boy is drunker than me by a long shot. But we’re having a good streak of niceness, so I indulge him.

I give Henry my left hand, but Tory holds onto my right. He looks concerned. “It’s fine. Go enjoy your party, Amato.”

Wrong move.

Wrong word.

Wrong everything, apparently.

Tory wraps my braid around his wrist and pulls my face to his chest. He leans down beside my face and growls, “Don’t. Ever. Call me. Amato.”

“What?” I manage to gasp.

“You call me Tory. Only you. That is all you call me. Not Vic, Victor, or Amato. Tory.”

My brows furrow in confusion. He relaxes his grip, but not the tense set of his jaw. “Since when?” I ask. “I thought you hated it.”

“Since right now.”

And…Henry Mavis is now dancing with my left arm like it’s a piece of limp spaghetti. In fact, all of me feels like limp spaghetti and if Tory’s free hand wasn’t holding me up, I’d have dropped to the floor due to the deep timber of his voice.

Then he releases me and takes an ominous step toward Henry. “Find someone else.”

“Come on, Amato,” Henry pleads. “You can’t hog her.”

Tory huffs. “I’ll do whatever the hell I want.”

My eyes dart around the party, looking for Vince and finding him by the kegs in the open concept kitchen. He doesn’t look over.

---