sticking out of them. I see my name and next to it: Mark Cranbury. Sitting down, I seize his card and shred it into pieces as Gage watches without comment. He slides another glass of champagne toward me.
“Are you trying to ply me with liquor?”
Gage stretches a hand over the back of my chair. “Babe, I don’t need to get you drunk to get your clothes off.”
“I’m not an easy lay, if that’s what you’re implying. If anything, you’re easy.”
Wow. I must be tipsy already.
“So?”
So, indeed.
I smile at him behind my glass, and he grins back. I’m determined to enjoy the evening even if Mark’s betrayal bothers me more than I’m willing to admit. “How’s my car doing?”
“It’s only been a couple days, but I removed the engine already. The parts will take a while to ship.”
The table slowly fills with the rest of the guests as they find their seats. To my amusement, conspiracy theorist George is sitting at our table. He makes a double take when he sees us sitting together. “Hi, Gage! Olivia, so nice to see you again.”
Gage grunts something in response.
“Thanks! You too.”
“It was a beautiful ceremony, wasn’t it?”
I nod, wanting to ask him about KGB or Illuminati running amok in Yosemite, but Gage gently touches my thigh under the table. “Don’t engage or he’ll talk your ear off.”
I turn toward him, the world taking a moment to catch up. “Fine. Then tell me something about yourself. Where are you from?”
“I’m from here, obviously. What’s with the questions, sweetheart? I thought this wasn’t a date.”
“That doesn’t mean I can’t ask you about yourself.”
He smiles knowingly. “Then I have a question.”
“All right.”
“How drunk do I have to get you so you’ll dance with me?”
“I told you dancing was fine.”
He waggles his eyebrows. “But what if I want dirty dancing?”
“I’ll need at least two more to do that move with Patrick Swayze.”
He laughs, and maybe it’s the liquor or because the suit enhances the whole image, but I’m amazed by how beautiful he looks. A lightness brushes the scowl from his forehead, and there’s a playful dance in his eyes. Even the other people at the table seem to notice. More than one is openly gawking at Gage.
“You need to drink with me. I can’t do this alone.”
“Fine. But I’m not drinking champagne. Come with me to the bar.”
I stand with difficulty, grinning at anyone who looks at me. Gage’s arm keeps me steady as we walk toward the open bar. He asks the bartender for a brown ale, and I order a rum and Coke. I’m sober enough to be self-aware, but I’m at the tipping point. A few more drinks, and I’ll probably think twerking is a perfectly appropriate dance move at a wedding.
Gage bumps his beer bottle against my glass. “To new beginnings.”
“To a new car engine,” I blurt out.
“And a car engine,” he adds.
I sip the drink as we head to the table, increasingly aware of how good his hand at my back feels. And then I see the bride, Sophie, opening the dance floor with her husband. The hurt throbs inside my chest suddenly.
Gage tilts his head and guzzles his beer, turning away from the happy couple as darkness descends over his face. So I’m not the only one who doesn’t like weddings? Interesting. Applause breaks out in the crowd as the bride and groom take their first dance, and then guests float onto the floor. They revolve slowly on the spot like white blooms carried by summer wind. The balmy heat clings to my skin as Gage leads me toward the floor.
“So do you actually know how to dance?”
“Like a dad at prom.”
My laughing is punctuated by a hiccup. Damn, everyone’s here. Even the priest who married the couple is dancing. Gage whirls me into his arms, and I feel the damp heat of his skin baking underneath his dress shirt. The band kicks off with Whitney Houston’s Greatest Love of All. The singer tries in vain to reach Whitney’s high notes, but doesn’t quite succeed. I stop caring once he grabs my hip, his callused hand grasping mine. My feet trip over themselves.
“Slowly, Gage.”
He smirks. “I didn’t realize you couldn’t hold your liquor.”
“I have a right to be drunk tonight. Seriously. My car is wrecked. My personal life, too.”
“I’m glad you told him off when he knocked on your door. A lot of women would’ve just swallowed their pride to marry the rich guy. You didn’t, and good for you.”