Waiting for her to speak, it dawned on me that after all these years, we’d traded places. Now, she was the axis of the entire room. I was twenty-six years old, one of the best quarterbacks in the league, I had the world at my feet in just about every way that could be defined, and I had a crush on a pretty girl who used to be my friend.
“Umm,” Adaline said in a shaky voice, “the first option is that you’re in the market for a new shampoo. I ordered it from Amazon and can send you a link if you need something with extra moisture.”
Under my breath, I laughed, tracing the line of her knuckle with my thumb where our hands were joined.
“It’s got mango butter in it,” she continued. For a moment, the tip of her finger tracked the collar of my shirt along the back of my neck. Almost touching skin. “That’s what you’re smelling.”
“Delicious,” I murmured, drawing another lungful. Adaline’s hair was long, a deep chocolate brown, and in the rare instances she posted a photo with her hair down, it fell well past her shoulder blades. I wanted to bury my hands in it and see how soft it was.
Like she could read my thoughts, Adaline blew out a slow, unsteady breath.
“A solid option,” I said. “And the second?”
Adaline’s lips curled into a sly smile. “You’re a serial killer, which most single women should be wary of when a handsome stranger asks them to dance and won’t tell them who he is.”
“If I was one,” I said quietly, “didn’t you just tip me off that you’re on to me?”
“If you were one, yes.” Her eyes were warm and happy.
Mine probably were too. In the back of my head though, I knew I should ease us out of this mystery and tell her who I was.
Hopefully, she’d be happy. Fling her arms around me after giving me a stern look for teasing this out so long.
“Option three,” Adaline continued, “is my least favorite option.”
I hummed. “Why’s that?”
Her eyes stayed locked over my shoulder. “I think you might be famous,” she answered carefully.
My heart stopped, and it was a testament to my physical training that I managed to keep the smooth rhythm of our dancing going without tripping over my feet.
“Really famous,” she continued. “Your voice sounds f-familiar, but I can’t place it. And you look like you might be an athlete. But if you’re famous enough that you don’t want to tell me your name, then we may have a problem.”
Her dark eyes darted up to mine, and unconsciously, the muscles in my jaw clenched. Her gaze landed there, held for a beat, then moved away.
“What problem?” I asked. I didn’t even have to try to keep my voice low. The growing spread of worry through my body kept it anchored somewhere deep in my chest.
“I dated an athlete,” she said. “The one who didn’t like to dance. Because he wasn’t great at it, and he hated how everyone watched him do something that didn’t come easily to him.”
I really, really hated that guy.
“And when we broke up, I made a promise to myself that I’d never do that again.” Her eyes flicked up to mine. “Date someone with a job along those lines. And I’d be very sad if you were someone like that because this might have to be one dance, and that’s it.”
My stomach flipped uncomfortably. But we were different. Adaline and me. We had history. She knew me, knew my family, and once upon a time, looked at me like I was the missing puzzle piece. She hadn’t done that in a long time. Because of me and how I’d brushed her aside.
I closed my eyes and fought a wave of panic. I should’ve told her immediately. But I refused to think this couldn’t be salvaged.