Mister O(39)

Wyatt taps his chest. “She wants me.”

Harper and Jen head for the ladies’ room, and I can’t resist the chance to beat Wyatt, so I speak first. “Want to dance, Natalie?”

“Sounds great.”

I offer her my hand and lead her out on the dance floor, then proceed to slow dance in the most chaste way possible, with as much distance between us as I can manage.

“I hear my sister wanted to set us up,” Natalie says with a quirk in her lips.

“Yes, she did.”

“She’s got hearts in her eyes these days,” Natalie adds, but there isn’t any flirting in her tone, just amusement. I should be disappointed. I’m not.

“No surprise there,” I say as we move in a small circle, my hands on her waist, hers on my shoulders, our bodies many inches apart. I wonder if she feels it, too—this lack of attraction. It’s not because she isn’t pretty. It’s not because she isn’t smart. It’s just one of those things—the spark is either there, or it isn’t. Natalie and I don’t spark.

She parts her lips to say something, when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“May I cut in?”

Like someone grabbed the remote and changed the channel mid-scene, my pulse speeds up.

“Be my guest,” Natalie says with a smile, and then Harper’s in my arms, and without a second thought, there’s barely any distance between us. My fingers curl over her hip bones, and her hands wrap around my shoulders. Everything sparks. She’s so much closer than Natalie was. A few more centimeters and our chests would touch. A little more and we’d be dancing cheek to cheek. More than that and we’d be arrested for public indecency.

“Is this the obligatory best man/bridesmaid dance?” I ask playfully.

“Wouldn’t a maid of honor/best man dance be more obligatory?”

We sway, moving the slightest bit. “You stopped that from happening,” I say, nodding in the direction of Natalie’s exit. “Did you sense I needed you to perform your patented swoop in and save?”

She laughs lightly. “She didn’t seem your type,” she whispers. “Too young.”

“Why do you keep saying—?”

But she shushes me and tips her head to the right. Wyatt is already dancing with Natalie. “Maybe I just felt bad for your brother. I could tell he had eyes for her, and I’d feel terrible if you beat him out. Poor Wyatt. Always second best to his big brother.”

I laugh and shake my head. “We’ve never fought over girls. Everything else, though.”

She shrugs, and as her shoulder juts up, I wrap my fingers more tightly over her hip, brushing against the bone. Her breath catches, and these are the moments that turn my world with her into a bumper-car ride. I don’t ever know if we’re coming or going. We smash into each other, then we bounce apart, and then we’re right back like this. Bows, skipped breaths, and glossy eyes. That’s how hers look right now. This very second they shine with desire, as if she’s showing me how she pulls off a trick. As if she’s revealing her truth.

“Besides,” she says, low and soft, “maybe I felt territorial.”

My lips curve up in a grin, and my heart pounds wildly. Territorial is my new favorite word.

“Did you?” I ask as we turn in a lazy circle. Somewhere nearby is my best friend, and I don’t care. Because this woman is in my arms. She is all I see, all I hear, all I smell. The need to be closer to her consumes me, blotting out everything else—most of all, the reason to stay away.

Her hand moves closer to my neck, and she fiddles with the collar on my shirt. “Your tux looks good,” she says, breathless, and as much as I like that, I also hear what she doesn’t say. You look good.

There’s a difference between the two. A big difference.

Spots of light play over the hardwood floor as the song slides to the end. “So does your dress,” I say, as I roam my eyes over her clothes then back up to her face. Then I show her how it’s done. She asked me to teach her. This I can do honestly—compliment her the way she should be complimented. With my eyes locked on hers, I say, “And you look gorgeous, Harper.”

Her chest rises and falls against my own, and I stare at her mouth as her lips part, as if she’s taking her time to say something. Then she does, and the words topple out in a nervous mess, but still they’re fucking perfect, as she says, “You look so hot.”

That’s all I can take. The sliver of space between us is thick with lust. It’s strung tight with desire, and I’m confident for the first time it’s not a one-way street. Her eyes are clear and focused on me, only me, and even if she’s not good at reading men, she has to know what’s happening with us. I’m done fighting this.