Trouble

Spencer’s brow is arched as we stroll towards the dance floor. “Where did you work together?”

“I was a cater-waiter in college. I actually hired these guys for the reception.”

“You’re a Jill of all trades.”

“Master of none,” I mutter, as he takes my hand.

“Let’s dance.”

“You’re not here with anyone?”

“I would never take a date to a wedding.” He acts as if it’s so obvious.

“And why not?” My tone is defiant, and he pauses, studying me with a grin, like I’m one of those rare finds he and Daisy like to talk about. It tingles low in my stomach.

“I have my reasons.”

I allow him to lead me onto the dance floor. A slow Olivia Newton-John song I don’t recognize is playing, and the crowd has cleared after a boisterous round of Sir Mix-A-Lot’s “Baby Got Back.”

Spencer slides his hand to the middle of my waist, and our hands clasp. I lean closer, placing my eye at the level of his lips. He must be six-two, and I kind of love that he’s taller than me. I’m five-eleven, which means I’ve always been the same height or taller than my dates. I haven’t worn heels in years.

I close my eyes, listening to the song lyrics as I inhale his luscious scent. Fuck you, Elliot drifts through my mind.

“I hope you don’t take this the wrong way…” His mouth is at my temple.

“You secretly hate flowers?”

A chuckle rumbles from his throat. “You have the perfect body for that dress.”

My insides shimmer, and again, I’m at a loss. “You don’t think I need to lose a few pounds?” Elliot’s always commenting on portion size.

“Don’t you dare. You’re a perfect hourglass, a vintage beauty.” He steps back, and gives me an appreciative glance. “I’m sure that’s why Daisy picked it for you. She has a great eye.”

“Right.” We sway side to side, and I’m quiet.

“I’m sorry if I offended you.”

“No. You didn’t.” I lean back, squinting an eye as I study his perfectly straight nose and wicked gaze. He’s more like a model or an actor than how I’ve always pictured an antiques dealer. “How does a man like you get interested in antiques?”

“A man like me?”

“Yeah. You’re not an old professor in a moth-eaten coat with crumbs in your beard.”

“Thank God.” He exhales a scoff.

“So what’s your story?”

“I was born into it. My father had the largest, best-curated collection of priceless antiques in Newport. Drake Carrollton was the best in the business. A legend.”

“Are you a legend?”

“I’m an asshole.”

His frankness makes me laugh. “I’ve heard that about you. Daisy says you’re Mr. Freeze.”

“I don’t waste time on sentimentality. We deal with junk found in attics or sorted after the death of a relative. Your cousin gets too emotionally involved. It’s a waste of energy.”

“Right.” I move my nose to his shoulder again so he doesn’t see me grinning at his arrogance. “She told me.”