Page 114 of Marrying My Ex's Brother
“Especially now.”
Before I can argue, he leads me toward the dance floor.
People notice immediately. Whispers follow us like a draft. I feel every eye in the room. Galina’s cold stare from somewhere near the auction platform. Dmitri’s anger. Katya’s discomfort. Women turning their heads to watch. Men pretending not to assess me and failing.
Yaromir stops at the center of the floor and turns to face me.
I place one hand on his shoulder because I’ve been taught how to do this since I was a girl. Smile lightly. Stand straight. Follow the man’s lead. Look graceful even when your shoes hurt and the room wants to eat you.
But this is different. This is Yaromir.
His hand closes around mine. His other hand settles at my waist, not too low, not yet, but firm enough to remind me who I’m standing with.
“Relax,” he says.
“I am relaxed.”
“You’re holding yourself like you expect gunfire.”
“Given your family, that seems wise.”
His eyes warm with something almost like amusement.
Then he moves.
I have danced with Dmitri before. Dmitri liked dancing because people watched him. He moved well, smiled easily, spun me when he wanted applause. He made everything look effortless because effort was beneath him.
Yaromir dances like he does everything else. With control. No wasted motion. No performance for its own sake. He leads without asking permission and somehow gives me enough space to choose to follow. His body is close, but not careless. His hand at my waist adjusts once, and suddenly my steps fit his perfectly.
It annoys me how good it feels.
“You’re thinking again,” he says.
“I’m trying not to step on you.”
“You won’t.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I am.”
“You’re sure about everything.”
“No.” His eyes hold mine. “Not everything.”
My breath catches, and the room blurs a little at the edges.
He turns me, slow and smooth, and the red silk of my dress moves around my legs. I hear a few whispers nearby. I feel heads turn. When I come back into his arms, I’m closer than before.
My chest nearly brushes his.
His thumb moves once at my waist. Small. Deliberate.
Heat slips down my spine. “Yaromir,” I warn.
His expression doesn’t change. “Yes?”
“People are watching.”
