The Dream - Whitney Dineen Page 0,45

close together our auras have surely crossed borders.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he says so quietly I wouldn’t have even heard him had his mouth not been so close to my ear. His hot breath causes involuntary goosebumps to erupt all over my body like tiny detonating explosives.

“Thank you,” I reply, sounding like I just ran a two-minute mile. “You look very nice, too.”

“Alexander sure is having a good time, huh?” he asks in such a way you’d think he’s not too happy about my friend’s attendance.

He almost seems like he’s fishing for information, but I don’t bite. Instead, I answer, “He dreams of being a pro on Dancing with the Stars.”

“You’re kidding?” Davis releases a bark of laughter.

“I would never kid about such a serious topic. Bu …” I barely catch myself before I reveal his real name. “Rather, Alexander, has watched every episode at least twice.” And in the case of Julianne Hough and Hélio Castroneves’s quickstep from season five, thirty-seven times.

“He’s something else,” Davis compliments. “Jessica is thrilled to be dancing with him.”

“She seems nice,” I say for no other reason than to prevent an awkward silence. God knows I don’t mean it.

“Hmmmm,” is his only response.

When the song ends, Davis keeps his hand around my waist and guides me off the dance floor. He doesn’t take me back to our table though. Instead, he forges a path down a darkened hallway.

“Where are we going?” I ask. I can barely see anything past the end of my nose.

“I have a surprise.” He doesn’t offer any more information than that.

Finally, at the end of the corridor, we walk through a door that leads to a dimly lit section of the back porch. Davis pulls me along until we arrive at a swing. “I thought you might like some fresh air,” he says before sitting down and patting the seat next to him.

I join him before my knees give out and I crumple to the wooden deck beneath my feet. Davis Frothingham has just whisked me away to a private location in the middle of the Spring Fling. My stomach feels like a troupe of acrobats are alternating between back handsprings and Arabian double tucks.

We sit quietly for several long moments when he says, “I’m glad you’re here tonight.”

“You are? Why?” I ask before I think better of it.

“Because I like spending time with you.”

I want to point out that he could have spent a lot more time with me if he’d asked me to be his date instead of Jessica, but I don’t. Instead, I say, “I enjoy spending time with you, too.” We sound like a couple of Puritans who’ve just arrived on the Mayflower.

I can hear them now:

Gideon: My dear, sweet, Verity, the time I spend in your company fills my heart.

Verity: Oh, Gideon, I feeleth the same. You are brave, constant, and true.

Gideon: Let us wed and bestow our virtue on a new generation.

Verity: Groovy.

Or you know, something like that.

“I don’t normally come to these dances, but Jessica asked me to join her to help her ease back into Creek Water life,” Davis says.

Is he saying they’re not on a date? I want to ask, but that would seem incredibly bold. Surely a trait Gideon wouldn’t admire in his intended. I must be losing my mind.

I finally say, “I don’t come to these dances either. You know, being that I’m not a member.”

“Is Alexander visiting for long?” he wants to know.

“A couple of weeks, I think.”

There’s an electricity darting between us that can’t possibly be one-sided. Can it? As if answering my question, Davis reaches over and takes my hand without saying a word. I want to rest my head on his shoulder. Who am I kidding? I want to hop on his lap and commence a lip-lock that would have Gideon and Verity rushing off to church to confess their sins.

I can’t think of a thing to say. I’m holding hands with my high school crush at the country club where I used to spy on him. I should be jumping up and down in celebration, but I’m not.

I’m worried that Davis and Jessica are going to rekindle their love affair, if they already haven’t. And if that’s the case, then he’s not treating me very respectfully by leading me on. Unless he thinks I’m a party girl like my mom. Which, yeah, no.

I’m so full of conflicting emotions I can’t enjoy this moment. I screw up my courage to come right out and ask