Nadia nudges my arm with her elbow, tossing me an appreciative smile. “And they rubbed off on you.” Then she smiles. “But honestly, it doesn’t matter. Maybe in the end I was meant to come to San Francisco and be single.”

Maybe she was.

Maybe I like that plan.

Because it’s easier to hang out with her, I mean.

And hell, it’s good that she’s as on board with her singletude as I am with mine.

“You think the universe was doing you a favor?” I ask.

“I have so much to focus on with building the team, and I want that to be my priority. Maybe that’s why the matchmaker couldn’t find anyone for me. Perhaps it was meant to be like this,” she says, sweeping her arm out widely to indicate the reception, and maybe this moment too, her and me, hanging out.

Whether it was the universe or bad luck, who knows?

However you slice this night, I’m glad to be here with her, and I want her to know that. She beats me to the punch when she says, “By the way, it’s nice to catch up with you.”

The grin she flashes me throws me off-kilter for a few seconds. It makes me want to touch her arm, tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, and whisper, Same.

I do one of those three.

“Same,” I tell her. “Same here.”

9

Nadia

I love champagne.

It makes me feel so . . . floaty.

So effervescent.

Like everything is coated in a warm, delicious glow.

Glows are great. Absolutely, officially great.

I would like to commission a glow to surround me wherever I go.

Tonight I’m glowing after the ceremony, after the toasts, after the cake that Crosby didn’t touch, of course.

After the moment in the hallway earlier, when he roamed his nose over my neck, like he was drinking in my smell, and then after that fantastic get-to-know-you-even-better chat at the table.

Now we’re dancing, along with the rest of the wedding party.

“You promised stories. I need the tales,” I say.

He arches a brow. “Are you sure you can handle them?”

“Oh, I’m sure. I love anti-fairy tales.”

“That’s all I’ve got when it comes to romance,” he says, spinning me in a circle, then bringing me close again, but not plastered-up-against-each-other close. The music is fast enough to shimmy, but slow enough for me to keep my hands on his shoulders.

Translation: we aren’t doing that melt-into-each-other slow dance.

His lips curve up in that delicious lopsided grin that he wears so well. That easygoing, lighthearted one. “Let’s start with Alabama.”

“As in the state?”

“As in the name.”

“Her name was Alabama?”

“Yes indeed. Alabama Venus.”

I grin. “Where did you meet Alabama Venus? Kinda sounds like a stripper name,” I say, then shake my head, thinking better of it. I bring my fingers to my lips, like I’m shushing myself. “Pretend I didn’t say that,” I whisper.

His blue eyes twinkle with delight. “Oh, you said it, Wild Girl. I heard it. And I sure hope you’re not insinuating that only strippers are named after states. Or that there’s anything wrong with dating a stripper.”

I slap his shoulder playfully. “I have zero issues with stripping. In fact, I’ll have you know that I led a campaign to make sure that strip club workers qualified for health insurance in Las Vegas.”

“Whoa, look at you, Miss Progressive.”

“But the name does sound . . . deliberately sexy,” I explain as we twirl past other couples on the dance floor, including my brother, who gives us those I’m watching you eyes, like Robert De Niro gave Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents.

Crosby and I both laugh at the groom.

Friends, I mouth.

Buddies, Crosby adds.

It feels true enough for now.

“Yes, her name does sound overtly sexy,” Crosby says. “And I suppose she had stripper tendencies, as you’ll learn, but she was actually a fortune-teller.”

A laugh bursts from me. “Did you ask her to look into your crystal . . . balls?”

The twinkle in his eye turns into a naughty gleam. “Keep this up. I like this risqué side of you.”

Funny thing is, I do too.

I can say things to Crosby that I don’t normally say to men. Maybe because I haven’t had the chance, since my dating life has been anemic—going to an all-girls college, then heading straight into a master’s program where all you do is study, study, study, can do that to a woman who digs men.

But perhaps it’s the champagne loosening my lips.

The other option is . . . it’s him.

“Maybe you bring it out in me,” I suggest, a touch flirty.

“I’ll do my best to . . . keep it up,” he says, wiggling his brows, making me grin. “And to answer your question, I met Alabama Venus at Whole Foods.”

I snort-laugh. “Wait, wait! Were you fighting over who got the last basket of organic raspberries?”

“I guess you do have a crystal ball,” he says, then dives into the story. “She was an organic food fiend too. Maybe not the best of commonalities, but there it was. We dated for a while. Seemed to be going well enough. So we went to Cabo, and one night she wanted to go dancing. We went to a club, and we danced our asses off.”

Perhaps powered by the “risqué” comment, I jerk back, one hand sliding off his shoulder and landing on his hip, so I can give his rear a quick once-over. Sneaking a peek at his butt, I remark, “It’s still here. Did you lose your rear in Cabo then get it back?”

He wiggles a brow. “I had a butt transplant.”

I laugh, and as I do, my hand seems to have a mind of its own. Emboldened by champagne, or the wedding, or Crosby’s stories.

What if my palm just grazed his rear?

Just a little.

That’s all.

We’re on the far corner of the dance floor, his backside out of view of the crowd.

And my hand is on his hip. I can sort of slide it down a little lower.

The she-devil in me wins, my hand skimming the top of one firm, squeezable cheek.

His eyes widen as my hand travels lower, then lower still.

Oh, thank you, champagne.

I’m feeling floaty indeed.

His eyes darken, a flicker of desire in them, chased with that teasing glint. “Nadia, are you checking out my butt transplant?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s busting me.

More like he’s . . . inviting me.

Still, heat flushes across my cheeks. I tug my hand away, raising it again to curl over his shoulder. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. It was sort of an accidental squeeze, powered by champagne and dancing,” I say, tripping over my apology.

Ugh, that’s a lie.

I hate lying.

It was not accidental.

It was deliberate and deliberately sneaky.

His voice dips low, a rough whisper just for me. “Was it? Accidental?”

His sexy tone sends a flare of sparks through my chest. A shiver that makes my whole body tingle.

“Or maybe it was . . . curiosity?” I posit, a little breathy.

“By all means, indulge your curiosity,” he murmurs.