The next sentence rolls out of my mouth despite my firm resolution to torment him by not really telling him anything about me. Especially not the weird things.
"I want to taste every single recipe in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, get myself kidnapped by elves and locked up in Rivendell, and attend the midnight release of the next book about the wizarding world that I know Rowling will write. If that last thing fails, I want to learn how to fly on a broom, at the very least."
He bursts into a cascade of laughter. But it's not in the slightest mocking or mean. It's warm and heartfelt.
And loud.
"Your turn," I say, in an attempt to stop him, because we are attracting less-than-friendly stares from the couples around us. "Stop laughing like a maniac and tell me three things about yourself. Three fears."
He laughs for a few more seconds before assuming a solemn face.
"I hate snakes and always keep a light on when I sleep. And I suffer from chronic commitment phobia."
His words hit me like a whiplash. Amazing how lighthearted and playful he throws them at me.
"So I've heard," I say, trying—and failing—to keep my voice steady.
"I wanted to make sure you know it from me," he says in a soft voice. Yet for all the softness, it still feels like whiplash.
"That's very considerate of you."
Why do his words have this impact on me? Why do they have any impact at all? I guessed a while ago how things are. I wish we weren't dancing so I could run away. Put as much distance as possible between him and me. My wish is not far from being granted. Though I haven't listened to many waltzes in my life, I'm sure the orchestra is playing the ending tones right now. I try to distance myself from his intoxicating presence, but his grip on me is firmer than ever.
"I saw how you were looking at me in that bar," he whispers with urgency.
Crap, so Jess wasn't exaggerating. I do my best to put on the poker face she mimicked on our way home, then I remember I have a mask on anyway.
"Why did you invite me here?"
"Why did you come?" he asks, and there is a slight uneasiness in his voice.
"Because you invited me," I answer as sardonically as possible.
"I was curious," he says quietly.
I don't wait to find out what he was curious about. The second the music stops I tear away from his arms and start walking as fast as possible through the sea of people, most still entangled in their partner's arms.
It's only when I reach the bar that I realize I've been walking in the opposite direction from the door. I swirl on my heels, determined to get out of here at any cost before the next song begins.
And then I collide with someone so violently I lose my balance and start losing height. I close my eyes and grit my teeth in preparation for my impending clash with the parquet.
It doesn't come.
A sharp pa
in in my left arm tells me someone caught me in my free fall. The guy I collided with. He helps me get back on my feet and I open my mouth to thank him but the words freeze in my throat when I meet his eyes. I know those blue eyes. And the lopsided smile.
It doesn't have that conceited, almost insolent air James's smile has, but the full lips and very fine dimple in his chin are identical.
"So sorry. Are you all right?"
He's English.
"Are you related to… Ja—the Cohens?" I say, biting my lip.
He looks taken aback for a moment, then his smile widens. "You’re English. What a nice surprise. To answer your question, yes, my mother, Lady Catherine, and Lady Beatrix Cohen are sisters," he says in a formal tone that doesn't match his smile. "That makes me a first cousin to James and Dani. Of course, the paternal side of my family might also be of interest for you. Astounding pedigree. I'm two-hundred-forty-sixth in line for the British throne," he finishes, and I crack up.
"Not bragging about that again, Parker?" Dani says, appearing at Parker's side out of nowhere.