Page 188 of Ricardo

“Mmm,” he says, and I can practically feel it on my skin. “I like the dress.”

I have a feeling he's not talking about the dress.

My fingers tighten around my clutch. “It is beautiful.”

“Yes,” he says, eyes still on mine. “It is.”

I roll my eyes because if I do not, I may do something humiliating, like melt in the middle of the ballroom.

His hand settles lightly at my lower back.

It is not possessive in any obvious way. He does not pull me into him. He does not make a display. His palm simply rests there, warm through silk, and everything in me seems to focus in on that single point of contact.

It feels as if everything in the room does as well.

A florist looks over.

One of the bartenders looks away quickly.

Patrice, traitor that she is, smiles down at her clipboard.

People notice.

I notice them noticing.

Ricardo notices me noticing them.

“Breathe,” he says quietly.

“I am breathing.”

“Barely.”

“I am not used to this.”

“No?”

It's not entirely true. I am used to this. It's simply not a feeling I thought I would have again.

His thumb moves once against my back. “They will adjust.”

Before I can think of an answer, a hotel manager approaches with a question about the order of arrivals for Mario’s remarks. His gaze flickers briefly to Ricardo’s hand at my back, then to my face.

“Miss O’Brien, Mr. Conti,” he says. “Apologies. We wanted to confirm whether the mayor’s office should be held until after—”

“No,” I say immediately. “The mayor’s office should be greeted as soon as they enter. We won't hold them for anyone.”

The manager nods, relieved. “Understood.”

The manager leaves.

I glance at Ricardo. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You looked amused.”

“I am often amused by competence.”