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I take a sip of my water. “Where's Mercer?”

“Talking to somebody about a charity golf tournament.”

“Is he going to play?”

“He said he'd rather have dental surgery.”

I laugh.

Avery surveys the room.

“Your date seems very attentive tonight.”

I keep my expression carefully neutral. “He's always attentive.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Avery.”

“What?”

“Don't.”

She lifts both hands. “Didn't say a word.”

Across the room, Bishop finishes his conversation and turns toward us. His gaze finds mine almost immediately.

Then he starts walking until he reaches us. “Dance with me, Becks?”

“I don't know if I'm any good.”

“It's not a competition.”

“Easy for you to say. Your entire career is a competition.”

He holds out his hand. “Come on.”

I give Avery one last look. She makes an exaggerated shooing motion.

Traitor.

I slip my hand into Bishop's. The music has changed.

The quartet gives way to a singer whose voice drifts softly through the room, warm and soulful, like wanting just a little more time with someone.

Bishop leads me onto the dance floor. I settle one hand against his shoulder while his arm circles my waist. And then we're moving. Slow and easy. Like this isn't the first time we've danced together in years.

Except the last time was at North Pines. And that night ended with me learning exactly how he saw me. I push the memory aside.

Tonight is different.

The problem is convincing the eighteen-year-old girl still living somewhere inside me of that.

She remembers the crooked bow tie. The way his blond hair kept falling across his forehead. How his hand rested against my waist while we danced, and how easily I'd mistaken his kindness for something more.

I don't want to spend tonight searching for signs that I'm wrong about him again.

Especially when his thumb is moving slowly against my back, his other hand holding mine like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.