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Thousand.

Dollars.

But I couldn't tell you what I ate.

Who spoke.

What cause I supposedly applauded.

Or whether the Congressman ever finished whatever the hell he was trying to tell me.

Shit.

That's not entirely true.

I remember her.

Every fucking second of her.

I remember the look on Layla's face after Celeste finally disappeared into the crowd. I remember slipping my hand around her waist and feeling emerald silk beneath my palm.

I remember the warmth of her body when I drew her closer. And I remember those hazel eyes lifting to mine when the music changed.

“What are you doing?”

“Dancing with my date.”

“You dance?”

“For you? Apparently.”

Then she smiled.

That fucking smile.

Bright. Surprised. A little shy despite all that Firecracker attitude.

Like maybe I'd managed to make her feel something she hadn't expected to feel tonight.

Fuck me.

I might've forgotten the eighty-five thousand dollars per ticket gala dinner. But I'll remember that smile until the day I die.

Then I pulled her into my arms and proceeded to make what was already a very public evening considerably worse.

Or better.

Depends on who you ask.

The dance was entirely too intimate for a ballroom filled with entirely too many fucking onlookers.

Layla's body pressed against mine. My hand spread across her lower back. Her fingers curled against my shoulder.

Every time we moved, that emerald-green gown whispered against my tuxedo, and the subtle scent of wildflowers and vanilla wrapped around me until I couldn't smell anything else. Couldn't think about anything else. Just her.

My Firecracker.

At some point, I noticed phones.