Page 70 of The Sweetest Return

And I had let her.

The thought made heat move slowly through my stomach.

What would he think?

Mrs. Jones leaned toward me as though she could hear the question. “He won’t mind.”

I looked at her.

She smiled into her water glass. “My son has many flaws. Being foolish enough to object to you sitting beside him is not one of them.”

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Mr. Jones chuckled. “Leave the girl alone, Ro.”

“I am being hospitable.”

“You are meddling.”

“I can do both.”

Danielle laughed from across the table. “Efficiently.”

Before I could recover, the energy near the ballroom entrance shifted.

I felt it before I saw him.

That had started to annoy me.

People turned. Smiles widened. A few hands lifted. Someone said his name with that particular blend of affection and ownership people used when they had watched a man become famous and still remembered him before the world did.

Then Dre appeared.

Black Tom Ford tuxedo, cut perfectly through his shoulders. Crisp white shirt. Black bow tie. Deep-purple pocket square. Deep-brown skin warm beneath the chandelier light. His beard was freshly lined, haircut low, diamond earring catching every third step.

A diamond chain rested at his throat, subtle until the light found it, and a ring flashed on his pinky when he reached to clasp someone’s hand.

Dre looked good in jeans. He looked good in a T-shirt. He looked good on the Yard with sunlight on his face and his jacket over one shoulder.

In a tuxedo, he looked like a woman could lose an argument with herself before he even spoke.

He stopped twice on the way to the table. Once for an older alum who hugged him hard. Once for a man who shook his hand with both of his and leaned close to say something that made Dre’s expression sober briefly before he nodded.

Then he saw me.

His attention skipped the table, the place cards, and even his mother for one unguarded second.

It came straight to me.

His steps slowed for half a breath. It was small. Maybe no one else noticed.

I did.

His gaze moved over me before he could stop it. My face. My mouth. The bare line of my shoulders. The silk across my breasts. Down, not far enough to be disrespectful but far enough for my body to understand the difference. Then back to my eyes.

Heat moved beneath my skin.

Mrs. Jones, unfortunately, missed nothing.