“Talking about desks and light fixtures,” I clarified.

“And he must find that very interesting, because he just asked you to dance,” Duffy chimed in now, manicured, diamond-covered hands studiously clasped under her chin. “Get ready, dear. He’s on his way over.”

*  *  *

The dance floor glowed, lit up in a dim-blue hue and the soft flickering light of candles. I knew that later in the evening—according to Cleo anyway—things would get raucous, with this crowd of hedge fund CEOs and bankers dancing past midnight. But it was only nine, maybe a little bit past that, and the band was playing a soft, jazzy tune, like something you’d hear in a café at brunch. All around me, couples were dancing closer than I’d realized from the sidelines. I’m not sure what I’d thought we were going to do when I agreed to this—a choreographed eighties-style number?—but dancing cheek to cheek was not it.

Hayes’s hand pressed gently on my lower back, guiding me through chatting couples, close talkers, and laughing circles of friends around the room, until we reached the edge of the dance floor. He leaned in closer to talk, but his voice was still quiet over the din of the music. “Do you want to lead?”

I turned to give him a look and was met by a grin more wicked than I’d ever seen on his face. I poked him in the shoulder as retaliation. “Normally, I would, but I literally have no idea how to do this.”

A slight panic was setting in. I couldn’t recall the last time I had slow-danced with someone. Middle school? Ninth grade, maybe? Sure, I danced at weddings, and at bars or parties when I’d had the occasional tequila shot or two. But danced danced, with my hand in someone else’s, their arm around my waist? There was no memory of this in my brain.

“I’m guessing your mom didn’t make you take ballroom dancing in the basement of a church in fifth grade?” Hayes said with a soft laugh.

“God, no.” I chuckled. “In fifth grade, I was only expected to mow the lawn.”

“Well, I could either teach you the box step,” he said, reaching for my hand, “or”—he rested his other hand firmly at the curve of my back—“we could just move, Ms. Doyle,” he said, and his words fizzed inside me, verbal champagne.

I’d never heard him say my last name before, and the sound of it on his lips heated me from the inside out, his voice rich and low. He bit his bottom lip as he looked at me—not smiling, just staring. My eyes moved from his mouth to his jaw, then back to his eyes, which were still on me. My body felt like a Slinky, coiled tight, on the edge of being let go.

“Hayes?”