“You look amazing,” he says.
“So do you.”
He drags his nose along my neck. “This dress.”
“You like?”
“Mm-hmm.” He kisses my jaw. “I’ll let the lack of turtleneck slide this time.”
Something in his voice feels different. Quieter, stiffer. “You okay?” I ask.
Alec pulls away, adjusting his collar. “Who was that man you were with?”
Ah.
“Out there?” I hook a thumb over my shoulder. “That’s Billy. I should introduce you.”
“Sure.” He drags his fingertips possessively along my collarbone. Over my shoulder. His touch teases down the low front of my gown. He directs his question to my cleavage. “He’s your boss?”
“Yes.” I stretch, kissing his chin. “He’s a grouch and a perfectionist and doesn’t need sleep, but he’s great.” I feel the presence of words he’s not saying like an elastic band pulled tighter and tighter. “Alec?”
“Hmm?”
“Am I here because you’re jealous?”
He meets my eyes squarely. “A little bit, I think.”
I can’t help it; I laugh. “Seriously? I’m surprised you even noticed me in the room.”
“I noticed you within about thirty seconds but it took a while for you to look over at me.”
“Not true,” I say. “I saw you the second you walked in with Yael.”
He draws a finger over my bottom lip. “I realized this story is going to get you a lot of attention, and there is a roomful of men out there you might date when I leave.”
Reaching up, I cup his face. Is he serious? I cannot imagine how any other man could measure up now. Before Alec, this kind of connection would have sounded made up, preposterously fictional. Now I worry every morning that this will be the last great romance of my life—extra devastating if it ends in a matter of days. I try to shape these thoughts into words, but I can’t. I am a thin glass vessel, carrying too many volatile emotions inside.
So instead, I fall back on teasing. “How dare you be jealous. Have you seen yourself?”
But Alec doesn’t play along. “Have you?” He grips my shoulders, turning me so I face a mirror.
And my breath feels suctioned from my chest.
We’ve stood side by side at the sink, brushing teeth. We’ve passed the mirror together on our way out of the hotel room, headed in separate directions. Out on the terrace, we are surrounded by gleaming windows; clearly, I know what we look like in a reflection. But here, with both of us dressed completely in black, and with mirrors in front of us and behind us, reflecting a thousand versions of the black-tie couple in smaller and smaller boxes, we’re… so good together. I come up to his shoulder, and his big hand curves possessively around my waist. He’s golden; I’m olive-skinned. His hair is neatly combed off his forehead; mine falls straight and glossy down my back. His eyes are dark and soulful, mine hazel and dancing. Together we are perfect. And for a flash, maybe only a handful of seconds, I know we experience the same thing: we can see ourselves standing side by side in a reeling collection of future moments. Welcoming friends at our front door. Walking through LA with fingers interlinked. Standing at the bedside of a loved one. Standing at the altar.
I blink, and it’s gone. It’s just the two of us in front of a thousand reflections, in a mirror ringed with golden lights, but I know by the look on his face that it happened to him, too.
He pushes my hair aside, bending to suck my neck, and I can’t take my eyes off our reflection. I watch his hand slide up my side, up over my chest, spreading over the deep V of the bodice, cupping my breast.
“I promise I’m not possessive,” he says quietly. “Not usually.” We both stare at the reflection of his fingertips drawing slow circles over my nipple, above the gown. “So why do I feel this way?”
“I don’t know. Why do you?”
“Is it crazy? Feeling this after only eleven days?”
“I mean it,” I say. “Why do you feel this way?”
He meets my eyes. “Are you not looking?”
“Come on.” I still his fingers on my breast. “I’m confident about how I look, but there are beautiful women everywhere. That isn’t why you feel this way about me specifically.” It’s weird how the question swells in my mind until it feels like a hot-air balloon, carrying every other thought away. Why me? Why now? And God, why is it like this?