beats me to the punch when she says, “By the way, it’s nice to catch up with you.”
The grin she flashes me throws me off-kilter for a few seconds. It makes me want to touch her arm, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and whisper, Same.
I do one of those three.
“Same,” I tell her. “Same here.”
9
Nadia
I love champagne.
It makes me feel so . . . floaty.
So effervescent.
Like everything is coated in a warm, delicious glow.
Glows are great. Absolutely, officially great.
I would like to commission a glow to surround me wherever I go.
Tonight I’m glowing after the ceremony, after the toasts, after the cake that Crosby didn’t touch, of course.
After the moment in the hallway earlier, when he roamed his nose over my neck, like he was drinking in my smell, and then after that fantastic get-to-know-you-even-better chat at the table.
Now we’re dancing, along with the rest of the wedding party.
“You promised stories. I need the tales,” I say.
He arches a brow. “Are you sure you can handle them?”
“Oh, I’m sure. I love anti-fairy tales.”
“That’s all I’ve got when it comes to romance,” he says, spinning me in a circle, then bringing me close again, but not plastered-up-against-each-other close. The music is fast enough to shimmy, but slow enough for me to keep my hands on his shoulders.
Translation: we aren’t doing that melt-into-each-other slow dance.
His lips curve up in that delicious lopsided grin that he wears so well. That easygoing, lighthearted one. “Let’s start with Alabama.”
“As in the state?”
“As in the name.”
“Her name was Alabama?”
“Yes indeed. Alabama Venus.”
I grin. “Where did you meet Alabama Venus? Kinda sounds like a stripper name,” I say, then shake my head, thinking better of it. I bring my fingers to my lips, like I’m shushing myself. “Pretend I didn’t say that,” I whisper.
His blue eyes twinkle with delight. “Oh, you said it, Wild Girl. I heard it. And I sure hope you’re not insinuating that only strippers are named after states. Or that there’s anything wrong with dating a stripper.”
I slap his shoulder playfully. “I have zero issues with stripping. In fact, I’ll have you know that I led a campaign to make sure that strip club workers qualified for health insurance in Las Vegas.”
“Whoa, look at you, Miss Progressive.”
“But the name does sound . . . deliberately sexy,” I explain as we twirl past other couples on the dance floor, including my brother, who gives us those I’m watching you eyes, like Robert De Niro gave Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents.
Crosby and I both laugh at the groom.
Friends, I mouth.
Buddies, Crosby adds.
It feels true enough for now.
“Yes, her name does sound overtly sexy,” Crosby says. “And I suppose she had stripper tendencies, as you’ll learn, but she was actually a fortune-teller.”
A laugh bursts from me. “Did you ask her to look into your crystal . . . balls?”
The twinkle in his eye turns into a naughty gleam. “Keep this up. I like this risqué side of you.”
Funny thing is, I do too.
I can say things to Crosby that I don’t normally say to men. Maybe because I haven’t had the chance, since my dating life has been anemic—going to an all-girls college, then heading straight into a master’s program where all you do is study, study, study, can do that to a woman who digs men.
But perhaps it’s the champagne loosening my lips.
The other option is . . . it’s him.
“Maybe you bring it out in me,” I suggest, a touch flirty.
“I’ll do my best to . . . keep it up,” he says, wiggling his brows, making me grin. “And to answer your question, I met Alabama Venus at Whole Foods.”
I snort-laugh. “Wait, wait! Were you fighting over who got the last basket of organic raspberries?”
“I guess you do have a crystal ball,” he says, then dives into the story. “She was an organic food fiend too. Maybe not the best of commonalities, but there it was. We dated for a while. Seemed to be going well enough. So we went to Cabo, and one night she wanted to go dancing. We went to a club, and we danced our asses off.”
Perhaps powered by the “risqué” comment, I jerk back, one hand sliding off his shoulder and landing on his hip, so I can give his rear a quick once-over. Sneaking a peek at his butt, I remark, “It’s still here. Did you lose your rear in Cabo then get it back?”
He wiggles a brow. “I had a butt transplant.”
I