I flatten myself into the sofa, but sadly, it doesn’t swallow me up. I push back, back, back as Nikolai’s hips sway forward, forward, forward like a wrecking ball inching toward destruction. To my right, Graeme is watching Nikolai with a clamped jaw. On my left, Dwight chortles and shakes his head.

The middle-aged women behind us scream—not cheer, scream—as he air-humps along with the beat.

Finally, finally, Nikolai lowers his foot.

I exhale in relief, but then he shimmies even closer, fingers clawing the air like a cat, his lips moving in sync with the lyrics. When he’s standing inches away from my knees, he lifts the hem of his shirt…

No.

“Yes!” someone screeches. “Take it off!”

Just as he lifts his shirt to reveal his marshmallow abs, the music fades out.

“Okaaaay, that was quite something. Let’s give it up for Dr. Kozlov,” Walsh shouts over the smattering of applause. A quick glance around the room confirms what I suspected: most of the audience is as shell-shocked as I am, with the group of rowdy women behind me forming Nikolai’s fan club.

Nikolai raises both arms like a conquering hero. He reaches for me—presumably to grab my hand—but Graeme blocks him by clamping his own hand over mine. I flash him a small, grateful smile.

With a half shrug, Nikolai blows me a kiss as he sashays around the cocktail table and collapses onto the sofa on the other side of Dwight.

Walsh steps forward. “That’s a tough act to follow. Who wants to take that on?”

Heads swivel, scanning the room.

Graeme shifts beside me… and stands. “Me.”

I stare at him, mouth open. But he hates getting up in front of people… and this isn’t like saying a few words at the safety briefing. It’s a whole other level.

He takes three long gulps of wine, sets his glass on the table, and winks at me from over his shoulder. The ladies in the lounge grin and elbow one another.

Walking over to Walsh, he whispers something in her ear. She beams and scrolls through her phone. When she nods, he strides to the dais and stands in the very center, facing me. Spreading his legs shoulder width apart, he forms a circle with his fingers and thumb and brings it to his mouth as though he’s holding a microphone. Walsh scurries over to fill his vacated seat and plops down next to me.

I lock eyes with Graeme. The lounge speakers crackle. With a grin that makes me tingle all the way to my toes, he drops his chin to his chest.

The opening refrain to ABBA’s “Take a Chance on Me” pumps through the speakers. And my heart bursts like a piñata.