He gestured at the vodka bottle and she enthusiastically nodded. He got to work, filling one of the glasses with ice, splashing vodka in, and pointing to the different mixers. He seemed relieved to have something to do. Sewanee gestured at the club soda. He obliged and squeezed a wedge of lime for good measure. He handed it to her and she mouthed “thanks.” He made himself the same drink and then slung his arm over the back of the banquet, crossed an ankle over the opposite knee, and gazed out into the crowd.
What. The hell. Are we doing here? she thought.
She took a significant gulp, was about to set it down, caught his eye, smiled tightly, brought the drink back to her mouth, and finished it. Then she set it down. He’d looked back out into the crowd so she matched him. Whatever he wasn’t looking at, she could not look at, too.
A server appeared next to Nick. She put her hand on his shoulder and leaned down to his ear, her corset overflowing.
Sewanee clocked this, thinking, really? I am literally right here. But then she took stock of just how much space was between them, even though they were directly opposite each other. She was as far away from him as the banquette would physically allow.
Nick pulled his head back and looked at Sewanee. He held up a hand, beckoned her toward him.
God, that hand. Those fingers.
She began scootching around the U, but her dress twisted around her thighs. She changed tactics, making small hops, an inelegant frog attempting to move laterally between lily pads. Eventually, she arrived.
He dipped his head so close to her ear she couldn’t tell if it was his breath or his lips that touched it. Either way, a shiver ran through her. “She’s saying we can have a bottle of champagne, if we want. That it’s included.”
They pulled back and she looked into his eyes. His focus racked to her mouth. All she said was, “oooh,” because it was a word that pushed her lips into a pout. He turned back to the now-standing server and nodded. She left and they were alone. Glued to each other’s side. He pivoted back to her ear. “I think I’m too old for this.”
She laughed and yelled back, “Same.”
His eyes were bright. She watched him take her in, her mouth, her chin and cheeks and neck and chest. Like he was memorizing her. Mapping her for future exploration. He sat forward, picked up his drink and took a sip, never taking his eyes off her. Then he was back at her ear. “You going to dance?”
She shook her head and brought her lips to his ear, enjoying the rush of gratification she felt when she saw goosebumps appear on the side of his neck. “Are you asking me to?”
“Yes.”
“Are you joining me?”
“No.”
“Oh, I’m supposed to dance alone?”
“Well, if you insist.”
“I would take you up on that generous offer, but I can’t dance to this noise. Are these actual songs?”
As if the DJ had heard her, the music morphed into a clubby remix of Phil Collins’s “In the Air Tonight.” Nick cocked his head: You were saying?
The gauntlet had been thrown. He tucked his knees to the side, giving her room to pass, and extended his hand. Taking it, she levered herself to standing. She didn’t immediately move past, but paused before him. At her stillness, his head came up and she looked down to meet his eyes, hand still in his. A timeless configuration, a Lady and her knight-errant. A timeless connection, clear and comfortable and right. An understanding of their respective place in this eternal dance, instinctively knowing when to lead and when to follow.
She moved to the dance floor and his eyes never left hers, not for a second.
She started dancing.
It should have been awkward. She was so out of practice. A well-preserved vintage car garaged for too long, its battery drained. But the music was a key slipped into the ignition and, to her surprise, the engine turned over. She began to move. The avidity in Nick’s eyes burned off whatever insecurity remained and the butterflies finally settled. She had no idea why he was so into her, but he was, and it was freeing. Freeing from something. For something.
She moved deeper into herself, her moves becoming small, intimate, private. In these matters, while other women might be overt, she’d always found that covert operations yielded the best results. Give him just enough to guess the rest. Make a man use his imagination and he couldn’t help but be curious. They didn’t need the explicit version. What they wanted was Pictionary. And she knew how to draw.
When the server returned with an ice bucket of champagne and placed it on the table in front of Nick, he shifted to see around her, to keep watching Sewanee, and had she ever felt more powerful? Had she?