18 - stolen glances and midnight whispers

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A new song welcomed James and I onto the dance floor, slow and alluring

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A new song welcomed James and I onto the dance floor, slow and alluring. We danced in silence. Strangely, it wasn't awkward. Actually, it was ... comfortable. My hand in his, his other one resting on my side. The woodsy smell of him cocooned my perfume, but didn't overpower it. There was a healthy amount of space between us, but I noticed the way I'd breached the distance without thinking as our dance wore on. The music curled around us like a blanket, and we were breathing in sync. Yes, comfortable.

Too comfortable.

It scared me.

The violin surged, the song reaching its crescendo. James dipped his head lower, his mouth hovering so close that I could feel his cool breath coasting along the shell of my ear.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

I glanced up.

His gaze was searing mine. Cautious. Kind. Concerned. All at the same time. It took me back to that night in his room—just him, me, and the blistering vulnerability that resulted in me confiding in him.

I broke it, watching the other dancers fluttering by. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He hesitated before answering, his voice low. Velvety. "You didn't answer the question."

Even without looking at him, I knew what he was asking.

James and I hadn't spoken since I'd so generously offered up the story of my father's passing on a silver platter. He'd tried to catch my eye during dinner, and again when I'd thanked his parents when they did the rounds of the tables. He wasn't the only one; Dex, Noah, and Holly had all asked the same question in their own unique ways.

I'd shrugged them off with a simple smile every time.

But the truth was that, no. I wasn't sure that I was okay. I hated that I'd revealed my dad's death to Holly and the guys in the way that I had. As a tool to get the better of some bitch in Dior and Manolos. Not only that, but that piece of my past was one I'd barely shared with anyone. Aside from my mother and sister, only Elijah and Lola knew. It was intimate. It was personal. It fractured the divide between acquaintances and friends.

I cleared my throat, hyperaware of the lump that was forming there. I'd already cried in front of James once. I didn't need a repeat.

"I will be."

My whisper trickled off into the night, twining with the violin's cry. The lights had darkened again, the marquee only lit by those tiny bulbs and the dancing candles on the tables. There was confidence woven into the bitterness, a promise that I believed what I said to be true. I was sure that I could survive the pain shredding my heart, sure that one day I could look at a picture of my dad and feel love instead of that sting of betrayal. I just wasn't sure what kind of person I'd have to be to get there.

James' hand slid to the small of my back. "That's all we can do," he murmured.

I didn't notice until he went quiet that the knots in my stomach seemed to unbundle. That oxygen was coming a little easier now, that breathing didn't feel like such a chore.

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