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She and Chelsea exchange a meaningful look I’ll have to ask about later. Sam leads us deeper into a room almost overfilled with people. It’s the kind of place that would normally have me seeking an exit and fast. I don’t have social anxiety, but I do hate crowds, especially crowds of strangers.
But I’m here for Chelsea, and I keep my eyes on her liquid silver dress as we follow Sam through throngs of people. Her friends are standing around a table in a relatively quiet corner away from the dj booth and its massive speakers.
“Everyone, this is my new friend, Chelsea, and her … uh …” Sam pauses and glances at me, clearly not quite sure how to introduce me.
“Boyfriend. I’m her boyfriend, Mason.”
I like the way that word tastes. I also like the way Chelsea looks up at me when I say it, like I’ve just given her the best gift ever.
Which reminds me—I still have a gift I was too nervous to give Chelsea on Christmas Day. I hated the look on Chelsea’s face when she opened the shoes and realized they were from meandJohn. Honestly—they were more John than me. (Even if I agreed with John about her safety and needing shoes with more grip.) I didn’t tell him I’d already bought her a gift, and it’s still tucked away in my room.
“Boyfriend, huh?” Chelsea asks, leaning in so just I can hear. There’s a teasing lilt to her voice. “Are you getting ahead of yourself, Mr. Brandt? I don’t remember beingasked.”
I meet and hold her gaze. “I hoped. And when I hope, I plan,” I say, throwing her earlier words right back at her. Then I lean closer. “Though Iwillask. Just to make sure we both know where we stand.”
“I’d like that,” she says. “I hope you don’t make me wait too long.”
I don’t plan to.
I’m so distracted by our conversation and the way Chelsea’s looking at me that I immediately forget the other two couples’ names as Sam introduces us. One of the men is older—maybe late thirties or early forties?—and seems totally enamored of the tall, blond woman on his arm. They’re in typical dressy clothes, unlike the other couple, who are definitely dressing up. He has on a retro powder-blue tux, which perfectly matches his pink-haired date’s blue dress. While he’s wearing a Santa hat, she has some kind of headband contraption with what appears to be a sprig of mistletoe extending above her head. Looking at the man’s ruffled dress shirt, I don’t feel so bad about my spray-snow accents.
“Let me guess—you’re ‘Blue Christmas’?” Chelsea asks them.
The pink-haired woman beams and elbows her date. “Yes! Zane thought no one would get it.”
Zane shakes his head, but he’s smiling as he draws her closer and kisses the top of her head. “You’re right, Abs. You’re always right. But I only agreed to this because you’re wearing mistletoe. Which means I get to do this”—he drops a kiss on her lips—“anytime I want.”
“You don’t need mistletoe for that,” she says, kissing him right back.
The other woman makes a gagging noise. “What did I tell y’all about PDA when I’m around?”
“Zane and Zoey are twins,” Sam explains while craning her neck to look around the crowded room. “Meanwhile, I’ve lost my boyfriend. Did anyone see where Matt went?”
“Nope,” both other women say at the same time.
“Well, anyway. I’m sure you’ll meet him later,” Sam says, smiling at Chelsea and me. “Here are a few free drink tickets, and we’ve staked our claim at this table. Join us any time.”
While they all seem nice, I’m only interested in one person in the room. Taking Chelsea’s hand, I lace our fingers together. “May I have this dance?”
“You like dancing?” she asks, looking surprised.
I get it. A lot of guys don’t like dancing. Or can’t dance. With my build, I definitely seem more suited to basketball, my sport of choice, than hip-hop or the tango. What Chelsea doesn’t know is that I took a dance class in college for credit and loved it so much, I took it for two more semesters. Funny how Chelsea and I can know each other so well yet still have so much to learn.
“How about I show you?”
I raise a brow and tug Chelsea toward the dance floor where I proceed to demonstrate for the next several hours just how well I can dance and how much I enjoy it—when I’m with the right person.
CHAPTER15
Chelsea
This is not a drill.I am sitting in Mason’s lap! Sitting. In. His—
“Why are you being so quiet?” Mason asks. “Are you asleep?”
“I’m awake,” I say through a yawn. “And I’m not being quiet.”
Okay, fine. Iam, but it’s not like I’m going to admit what I was just thinking. It’s like the equivalent of getting caught writing Mr. and Mrs. Mason Brandt on my math binder. And I am trying my hardest to play this cool. I’m not about to confess how much I like him (yet) or how long I’ve liked him (yet) or how I’m already thinking about our kids’ names (yet).
