Was interrupting a man midescort simply not done?
Mel really didn’t care about the unspoken rules; she was more intent on saving a scrap of self-respect. Beat shouldn’t have to suffer through her unwanted adoration. “Beat, it’s fine. I’m not your date.”
“Since when, Mel? We came here together.” He shot a narrow look over her shoulder. “What did Danielle need to tell you?”
“Nothing important.”
He studied her. “I think you’re fibbing.”
“Why?”
“Your right foot is digging into your left ankle.”
“I’m . . .” Melody looked down, seeing that she did, indeed, have all her weight balanced on her left foot, her right toe smashing into her opposite ankle. “I had no idea I did this when I lie.”
“Aha. I knew it.” Under his breath, she thought he said, “I’m fucked.”
But she couldn’t be sure.
Melody placed both feet firmly on the ground, growing increasingly desperate for that scrap of pride. If she couldn’t come by it through avoidance, she could at least tell the truth. “Fine. She let me know that . . . the internet has decided I have an . . . affinity for you. A crush, for lack of a better term. They have focused in on it, what with their hashtags and things. She wanted to let me know that . . .”
Beat had rocked back on his heels. “Let you know what?”
She glanced anxiously at the camera, its red light flashing, and dropped her voice to a pained whisper. “That I was being obvious about it.”
Oh, good Lord.
She’d done that. She’d just admitted her crush to her crush. Out loud.
For the whole internet to see.
Surprisingly, Melody didn’t immediately want to find a dark corner to wrap herself in the fetal position and shame-spiral until the sun came up. The admission was almost . . . freeing. Like she’d been running with a parachute strapped to her back, but someone—no, she herself—had finally reached back and snipped the strings.
“Uhhh,” Rick said. “I think I see my date.”
Rick was still there?
Yes. Not only that, she had his arm in a death grip.
Loosen. Loosen.
“Sorry,” Melody murmured, setting the blond golfer loose.
Beat still hadn’t moved, his jaw bunched as he looked down at her. Eyes unreadable.
She forced herself not to look away, but the fetal position was becoming more inviting.
“I’ll just see you in there—”
“We should talk,” Beat interrupted.
“We really don’t have to talk about it. The . . .”
“Your crush on me.”
She gulped. “Yes.”
“We do need to talk about it.” He wet his lips. “You . . . it’s complicated, Mel.”
“I super don’t want the ‘it’s complicated’ talk.”
“This isn’t the typical ‘it’s complicated’ talk. We’re not typical.”
“You mean, I’m not,” she blurted.
His eyebrows slashed together. “What?”
The camera was two feet away. They both seemed to realize it at the same moment, her brain engaging just in time to snap her mouth shut, Beat visibly shaking himself. “Come on. We have some time before my mother makes her grand entrance.” He gave Joseph a pointed look. “No cameras allowed on the dance floor.”
Before Melody knew what was happening, Beat took her hand and pulled her through the entrance into the ballroom—and she couldn’t help but marvel at her surroundings for a second. The room had been transformed into a veritable winter palace, cast in silver and gold hues, several large sculptures in the shapes of snowflakes hanging from the ceiling, lights twinkling, champagne glasses clinking. The tables were garnished with lush holly wreaths and hurricane candleholders that flickered and glowed. Tasteful, elegant perfection.
Her mother would have hated it.
It took Melody several beats to realize she was being pulled into the center of the dance floor—where no one else was dancing. Like, zero.
“Oh. No. I don’t think so. I don’t need all these witnesses when I accidentally kill you. The coroner will determine you died from a freak accident. ‘The high heel went straight through the sole of his foot, John. Death by stiletto.’”
Beat sent her an amused glance over his shoulder. “Who is John?”
“The coroner’s plucky assistant.”
“Obviously.” Beat turned on a dime and trapped her with an arm around her waist, his public smile tilting his lips beneath the black velvet mask. “We need to talk off camera. This is the best way to do it, okay? Do you know how to turn off your mic?”
“Do you think Danielle wants us to turn them off right now?”
“I don’t care.”
“Right.” She reached back and pressed the button on the battery pack for the third time in under ten minutes. “It’s off.”
“Mine too.” He shook her a little, his attention straying to her breasts, before returning to her face resolutely, though . . . were his eyes slightly glazed? “Loosen up, Melody. I’ve got you.”
“Oh. Full name. He means business.” The raw kick of his cologne invaded her nose. She gave into the urge to memorize it. The masculine notes of charcoal and sage and black licorice. Darker than she would have imagined for Beat. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. I swear, I’m not suffering from some delusion that you’re going to be my boyfriend. It’s just a holdover from my youth, I guess you could say?”
No. She was selling the whole thing short.
You’ve come this far, why not let the whole truth out?
And it wasn’t merely that being honest released the pressure she’d been housing in her chest for a decade and a half, but she trusted Beat. Trusting Beat was like a built-in mechanism she couldn’t remember being installed. For some reason, that faith in him had always been there. Maybe she’d been born with it.
“Okay, here’s the truth. I don’t date very often. Lately, not at all. You understand what it’s like to grow up with a famous parent, you never know if someone is in it for you. Or if they just want a good story. ‘I dated Trina Gallard’s daughter.’ You know?” They were moving, but not really. Swaying to the swelling of strings, without bothering to turn in a circle. Beat was staring at her mouth, as if concentrating hard on the words that were coming out—and she couldn’t have imagined a better reaction to what she was saying. Listening. He was listening. “When I met you a million years ago, I was right in the middle of a hard time. I was just this awkward presence bumbling around, being nothing like my badass mother. I was a disappointment. But you treated me like . . . a person. A real person who was going through the same thing as you. Or have I overblown the whole thing in my head?”
“No,” he said, voice rusted. “You haven’t.”
Relief grew like branches in her veins, straight into her fingertips where they rested on his broad shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Jesus, Mel. You have nothing to thank me for.”
“Okay.” They were being careful to keep their bodies a centimeter apart, but her nipples were slowly drawing into tight points, as if attempting to reach out and brush his chest. His firm hands gripped her waist, thumbs resting on the points of her hips. She had to bite her tongue to keep from requesting that he dig them in. Just once. Just so she could know what it felt like. But that wouldn’t be right. “Beat, my attraction to you isn’t your responsibility.”