Left Field (New Hope #4)

Chapter Eleven

Lucy

There is no plausible reason for a rehearsal dinner to be this opulent. It's called a rehearsal because things haven't been perfected yet. Apparently, the Heathrows didn't get the memo.

Swaths of gossamer hang from the ballroom's domed ceiling. Fairy lights are spun in the air like kernels of candy, dousing the marble floor with colorful prisms. A string quartet performs on an elevated stage in the center of the room. A cover of Bishop Briggs's Wild Horses seeps from their instruments, and dozens of people dance to the quick beat. Grand doors along the back wall are propped open to the warm night, allowing guests to flow in and out from the beach.

Everyone is dressed like this is the actual wedding, though it isn't for another two days. Tomorrow, Julian and Natalie are each throwing their own parties to celebrate the end of their single lives, so the rehearsal is taking place tonight.

My floor-length evening gown clings to my legs as I enter the ballroom, the midnight blue satin like a second skin. The material plunges between my breasts, displaying the gold body jewelry Blake laid out for me on the bed with obvious intent that I wear it.

We haven't discussed what happened between us last night. After Blake returned from the bathroom, I was already passed out. During the night, I stirred just enough to feel his long limbs wrapped around me, holding tight like he was scared I'd disappear. When the sun rose, I found his pillow empty, but a disgruntled text from him let me know he and his stepdad were touring Julian's yacht. Afterward, Blake was busy responding to work emails. We reconvened for lunch with Mallory and Mason, then headed back to our suite to get ready for the evening.

Now, Blake takes my hand, slipping my arm into the crook of his elbow. He glances down at me from the corner of his eye, a mischievous smirk on his lips. I match it with my own, heart fluttering like a hummingbird inside my chest.

He shouldn't be allowed in public looking the way he does. I've caught women and quite a few men turning their heads to stare, cataloguing not only his fitted black tuxedo and immaculate features, but his magnetism. He's freakishly intelligent and self-assured, yet humble. People are drawn to that energy. And despite the attention from outward sources, his focus is wholly centered on the woman at his side.

That woman happens to be me.

"Do you dance?" Blake asks, notching his chin toward the floor where couples have gathered to perform a version of the waltz.

I bat my lashes suggestively. "I can do whatever you want."

He yanks my arm, gentle but firm, and tugs me into his chest. "I intend to test that theory."

"I hope so."

We begin to move. Blake leads with my hand in his, his other palm resting on the exposed skin at the base of my spine. My fingers rest on his shoulder, smoothing the luxurious fabric of his jacket. Even in heels, I manage to keep pace with him. He's a good dancer, no doubt because of his mom's background. I can imagine her teaching him as a child, giggling as they fumble over the steps in their living room.

Henrietta outsourced my ballroom training, saying I'd need it to play a convincing role as an escort. Not only was I instructed on the foxtrot and waltz, but on which fork to use while eating a salad. I've utilized my dance skills for quite a few jobs, but I've never enjoyed it this much. I was too focused on not making a fool of myself or my client.

Now, I'm certain I could step on Blake's toes, and he'd find it adorable.

One song bleeds into the next, but my partner shows no desire to release me. Moreover, I'm not inclined to be set free. His gaze roams my face, as if he's trying to memorize it at every angle. I find myself doing the same. Taking note of the slight dip above his mouth, the tiny mole dotted on his jaw, the striations of blue in his irises—unlike any color I've ever witnessed. It's not until his eyes leave mine, narrowing on something over my shoulder, that the spell is broken.