As I drifted closer to the scene, wading through the crowd of onlookers, the tension in my chest wound even tighter.

“Wow” did not begin cover the acrobatic spectacle playing out before me. And damn did they look amazing together. Like a couple who had just jitterbugged out of a time machine—Lucas with his hair a total mess from all the action, Charlotte with her poison-berry lipstick and Marilyn Monroe smile.

They were in the zone.

Until Charlotte’s eyes drifted to where I stood.

The moment our eyes met, her smile became less exuberant.

But then I couldn’t see her face anymore, because Lucas had hauled her toward him again, ducking low as she braced her hands on his shoulders. Then his hands disappeared up her skirt. He lifted and Charlotte went airborne, her legs opening to allow her to clear Lucas’s head leapfrog style as he pitched her up and over—like someone tossing away a paper cup.

With more poise than a cat, Charlotte landed on her feet. Grinning once again, she ended their dance with victory fist pump to the air. Lucas laughed and smoothed his tousled hair as they jogged off the floor hand in hand.

The tightness in my chest puddled away, twisting into a cold knot in my stomach. I shut my eyes, trying to block out the memory of something that was only, I knew, a dance maneuver.

Physics. It was just . . . physics.

“You okay?” came a low voice to my left. “You look a little nauseous.”

I opened my eyes and, forcing myself to smile, turned to regard Wes, who peered down at me through a cautious side-eye. Though I wasn’t sure what Wes’s visit would bring, I was sort of glad I was no longer the only one here who didn’t look like she’d popped out of a Humphrey Bogart film.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a bit of a . . . headache.”

Augh. Why was I lying to Wes?

“How come you don’t do this, too?” I gestured to the dance floor, trying to deflect. The music had slowed now, allowing the competitors a break and the novices a chance on the floor.

“Why, Miss Armand, are you asking me to dance?”

“What?” I needed to backtrack. “No.”

“I accept.” Taking my hand, Wes began to weave his way through the crowd to the dance floor.

“Wes,” I protested, yanking. “I told you, I don’t know how to dance.”

He paused to glance back at me, his silken black hair catching a violet glow from the party lights. “You don’t have to dance. Just drape your fine self languidly over my fine self and let me sway you.”

Had the circumstances been different, I probably would have told Wes to back off and take a hike. But I had no idea where Lucas had gone. So what else was I going to do? Stand around and look pitiful?

Surprising myself, I allowed my free hand to float up and perch on Wes’s shoulder. As I did, I looked toward where the row of competing dancers had stood.