The music slows to an end again. How many songs have we danced together? I’ve lost count. I’m about to answer Christian’s question and launch into another dance when a towering presence appears next to us.

Richard has a weird expression on his face. Hard to say what’s going on inside his head, but he seems annoyed.

“If you dance another song together,” the boss says, looking at me, “you’ll end up on all the gossip magazine covers as Christian Slade’s mysterious new flame.”

“Richard, mate.” Christian lets me go and takes a step back. “I’ve been selfish; I completely stole your date.”

“Blair isn’t my date, she’s here to report.”

Since Richard asked me to join him on this Californian weekend, a tiny hope has been burning inside me. Hope that these few days together away from the office mean more than a business trip. Hope that something will happen between us, that if something in New York is impossible… you know, what happens in Hollywood stays in Hollywood.

Richard’s words extinguish that hope completely. They chill my heart and fill my mouth with the taste of ashes.

Christian smiles, shaking his head. “Mate, you’re such a slave worker.” He pats Richard on the shoulder and then looks at me. “Group projects back in school were the same. Richard kept us all in line.”

I try to smile, and I hope the tight-lipped grimace I’m producing doesn’t look as ashen as my heart feels.

“I’ve got to mingle with the other guests anyway,” Christian adds. “Blair, it’s been a pleasure.” He takes my hand and kisses it. “You’ll tell me all about your adventures next time.”

I manage to nod. Christian pats Richard on the shoulder one more time and is gone.

Refusing to meet Richard’s eye, I say, “I was tired of dancing, anyway.” I make to shuffle away from the dance floor.

“Not so quickly.”

Richard grabs me by the waist and pulls our bodies together while imprisoning my left hand in his. Without another word, he leads me back to the center of the square to dance.

The boss’s style is more basic, a steady one, two, three… one, two, three… But honestly, I couldn’t care less about Richard’s dancing skills, not when he’s looking at me as he is now.

I’m confused. He just spelled out for everyone that this isn’t a date. I mean, if this is the way Richard stares at his non-dates, how much neuro-damage can he inflict on his date-dates?

As we dance, neither of us talks. We just move, staring into each other eyes. It’s some sort of non-verbal conversation that is making my head spin like no pirouette ever did. I get lost in the brown of Richard’s eyes, and the world around us disappears. Only our bodies exist. The heat of his right hand on my lower back, the pressure of his hand on mine as he holds it, and his hypnotizing gaze.

I don’t know how long we dance, or for how many songs, or to what rhythm and steps. I notice only when the music stops. Someone, somewhere, is making a speech, probably Christian. I don’t care. I only care that Richard has let go of my hand and I’ve been suddenly deprived of his body heat.