We grab drinks and mingle as we make our way through the growing crowd that snakes between the tables. There are introductions to Rowan’s friends and acquaintances. Restaurateurs, lawyers, professional athletes. Regular customers. Irregular fans. Rowan is in his element, shining, glowing brighter than the splashes of color that shift overhead. His smile is easy, his laugh warm. His energy is infectious. Even though he’s capable of killing any one of them without remorse, he still puts people at ease, his mask infallible.
It might be Rowan’s element, but it’s definitely not mine.
Small talk is usually easier for me when I’m hunting, because I have a purpose, a plan to lure someone in. I find it hard to relate to people when I know they’re not shitbags who deserve to be relieved of their eyes. But with Rowan, it feels easier. He helps me make the first connections to other people. To find a common ground. Your new album is doing great—did you know Sloane is close friends with Lark Montague? Or, Sloane is going to Madrid in the morning for a meeting, weren’t you there last year? And then I’m off and running, integrating like I’m more than just a plus-one. He helps me to the boundaries of my comfort zone without pushing me over the edge.
And the whole time, his gentle touch is an anchor. My lower back when we stand. My elbow or my hand when we move. And throughout dinner he continues to check in even though we’re sitting right next to one another, with a smile or a glance or a single finger that glides over the inside of my wrist. When his name is called, he goes on stage and collects his glass teardrop trophy for Best Restaurant during the awards ceremony and even then he finds me with a wink and a lopsided grin.
And the ache buried deep in my chest burns hotter with every moment that passes.
When dinner is finished, the band starts up. Some people migrate to the dance floor, others stay to chat and mingle around their tables. Rowan heads to the bar to get us another round of drinks and becomes caught in conversation along the way. Likewise, I find myself swept away with the stories and anecdotes of our table companions who have remained behind.
But my eyes stray to the tall, beautiful man who sucks all the air from the room like an inferno.
He knows my darkest secrets. I know his. We can be monsters, and maybe we don’t deserve the same things that other people do. Happiness. Affection. Love. But I can’t seem to stop the way I feel when I look at every facet of Rowan, from his brightest light to his deepest, most dangerous dark. Maybe I don’t deserve it for the things I’ve done. But I want it. I want more with him than what I’ve got.
Suddenly, I’m excusing myself from the table and weaving my way toward him before I even know what I’m going to do. His back is to me, my fresh glass of champagne in one hand, a glass of whiskey on ice in the other. He’s speaking to a couple and another man, one he introduced to me as an investment broker. I stop just behind him, and when there’s a break in conversation I lay a hand on Rowan’s sleeve, my mind seemingly cleaved in two, like I’m watching myself from outside my body.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he says with a sheepish smile as he passes me the flute. “We got chatting about business.”
“Of course, I didn’t mean to interrupt.” I start to retreat but Rowan catches my wrist. He says something about it not being an interruption but I absorb only one or two key words beyond the music and the deafening percussion of my heart. I swallow, my eyes snagged on his lips before I finally manage to lift them and meet his gaze. “Would you like to dance? With me…？”
Rowan’s momentary surprise evaporates as his attention flicks to the dance floor, a spark igniting in his eyes as his lips lift at one corner. It reminds me of the devilish little smile he had at Thorsten’s when the cannibal suggested a visit to the tomato garden. When Rowan’s eyes meet mine once more, they glimmer. “Absolutely,” he says. He pulls my drink from my hand and places our beverages on a nearby table before leading us through the crowd.
As we near the dance floor, the band finishes one song and starts another, the pace slower but still energetic enough to be more than a shuffling dance, the tone romantic. Some people leave to refresh their drinks. Others pair up. I think for a moment that Rowan might detour back to the table or turn around to gauge my reaction, but he doesn’t. He forges ahead with my hand clasped in his until we’re on the floor among the couples, facing one another.
“You’re probably going to be annoyingly good at this, aren’t you,” I say as his right hand slides across my hip, his left holding my right hand aloft, his grip warm and steady.