A smarter girl would have planned it exactly that way. She probably would have made it more charming and seamless, a slight swoon right into Gabe’s arms.

As it was, I jerked and flopped like a dying fish, into his arms and then right back out.

He gave me a strange look—who could blame him—and then shrugged.

The music was blaring—how was this song still going on?—so I let that and the alcohol take over. My shoulders took the lead, swaying as the music flowed through me. No one in my life could ever accuse me of being a good dancer, but I was enthusiastic and I loved it. Loved to dance.

Ollie was a good dancer, giving himself completely to the music, head thrown back, arms up, hips hitting each bass note like they were playing the drums themselves. I could sense that Gabe was still there, but I couldn’t look at him. If he was a dorky dancer—like most straight men—I wasn’t ready for my fantasy of him to dissolve completely.

The music shifted and switched over. It was another great song—whoever was in charge of the music tonight must have just plugged the speaker directly into my memories. It was the perfect nostalgia overload—all my favorite pop songs from college. From a time when I actually went out on a regular basis—when I could drink vodka–Red Bulls and still go to class the next day. I knew that I’d be hurting tomorrow, but the music was so good and I felt so good that I didn’t want to stop.

I didn’t have moves, but I had a lot of hair, so I swung it around, loving the way it felt against the low-cut back of my dress. A little intimacy that I could share with myself. I was having fun.

I swung my arms out at a key moment and hit something hard.

Gabe’s stomach.

I’d done my best to avoid touching him. It was unprofessional.

But I wanted to. Wanted him.

Wanted him with such an intensity that it scared me a bit.

I pulled my hand back, but he’d already caught me. With a move that was impossibly smooth, he gave my wrist a gentle yank and spun me into his arms.

All the touching I’d tried to avoid was happening now. From chest to knees. We were pressed up against each other, my hand trapped between us, his palm flat against my lower back. He felt good. He felt incredibly good.

I stared at his throat. There was a little sweat there and I could smell whatever extremely expensive cologne he was wearing mixed with something more primal. More like him.

I was too drunk. Not just on alcohol, but on the intoxication of being close to someone I’d lusted after for a long, long time. Someone who’d felt untouchable. Unattainable.