Chapter 8: The Dance

He danced better than he thought he did.

We turned in the empty ballroom with the violin crackling from a speaker on the floor.

The orange light slid across the new boards.

His bare hand was flat on my back.

Mine rested on his right shoulder, away from the scar.

"You're counting," I said.

"I am."

"Don't count. Follow me."

"I don't follow."

"Then follow the music."

"I'd rather follow you," he said.

I looked up, and he was already looking down.

The waltz ended and the speaker went quiet, and neither of us moved.

My hand was still on his shoulder.

His had slid up my back to the nape of my neck, under my curls.

"This is a terrible idea," I said.

"Yes."

"You're my boss."

"Yes."

"I'm lying to you about something."

"So am I," he said.

I should have asked what he meant.

Then he kissed me, and I forgot there was a question.

It was not like Saturday.

Saturday had been hunger in the dark.

This was slow, and it was worse, because I could see him.

His gray eyes were open for the first second and then closed.

The scarred side of his face lay against mine, and his bare hand shook on my neck.

I kissed him back with everything I had and pulled him down by his lapels.

He made a sound in his chest that I felt in my knees.

"Upstairs," he said against my mouth.

"Yes."

We took the service stairs.

The private rooms at the end of the fifty-first floor were dark.

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