The gentlemen sat, the meal began, and Emme’s friends regaled her with tales of the day. She laughed with them, soaked up each detail, and felt extraordinarily fortunate to have loved ones who cared for her. It helped ease the sting of the last few days—weeks, even. The sadness and frustration she’d felt while at home, her current worry about the shifter cause, and the self-doubt in the back of her thoughts that often crept forward and taunted her belief in herself were banished in the warm glow of friendship.
They finished the meal, and Lucy directed the removal of the table and dishes. The furniture in the room had been pushed back, leaving a large empty space that Lucy proclaimed was now a dance floor. She produced a Victrola that Emme was fairly certain hadn’t been there moments before and cranked the handle, producing the sounds of a recorded waltz.
Amidst laughter and cheers, the couples matched up. Emme looked awkwardly at Oliver, who extended his hand. “May I have this dance?”
She looked down at her foot, unwilling to spoil Lucy’s fun but doubtful about her ability to participate.
“We shall move in very small circles,” Oliver promised. “I’ll support you.”
His words echoed through her head, and she nearly grew emotional. He was her support, always. Even in times of stress and antagonism, he hauled her away from danger. She thought of all the times he’d disrupted rallies, jumped into the thick of the melee, and while his primary aim had been to stop the chaos, he always managed to snatch her from harm’s way just as it was about to descend upon her. Looking at him now, appreciating the broad shoulders, the sun-kissed face and hands that evidenced time spent outdoors in the warm summer months, she thought of all the times he’d bodily tossed her about in the name of law and order and regretted she hadn’t known at the time to appreciate it.
She smiled and took his hand. “I must apologize in advance for your sore feet.”
“Nonsense. I’ve seen you dance before. You’ll manage an injured ankle without fuss. Would you be more comfortable with the crutch?”
She laughed. “No. Remember to be patient, though.”
“Always.” He stepped close and splayed his hand wide across her back, holding her right hand securely. She placed her other hand on his shoulder and leaned on him for support. True to his word, he moved slowly and in small steps to accommodate her limp.
They swayed in silence for a moment, and she looked at the others, who were so clearly happy together. She loved them all, had grown up with Isla and Hazel, and her heart was full as she watched them dance with their husbands. She laughed self-consciously and shook her head. “I am sorry you are saddled with a wounded partner.”
“I am not. As a matter of fact,” he said, his mouth close to her ear, “I believe the benefits far outweigh any negative.”
She smiled. “And how is that?”
“I am holding you much closer than propriety allows. But I must, you see, or you will fall.”
She tipped her head up and laughed, torn between affection and frustration. “I do believe you are a shameless flirt at heart.”
The surprise in his eyes was genuine. “Now there is one thing I have never stood accused of.”
She was dubious. “Truly? You’ve never used your considerable charm to comfort or placate a desperately pathetic woman laboring under a mountain of stress?”
“My considerable charm?” His eyebrows rose high, and he stopped moving altogether before something dawned in his eyes and he shook his head. He began moving again, turning her away from the others before ducking his head to catch her eye.
“You are somehow under the impression that my . . . attention to you this afternoon was prompted by an errant sense of duty to a woman who is most certainly not pathetic?” He laughed softly, continuing, “And with my considerable charm? Emmeline. Have you forgotten who I am?”
She wrinkled her brow, disgruntled. “My nemesis.”
“That is correct. Your number-one nemesis, who has managed a small smattering of charm because of the one woman alive capable of bringing it to the surface.” He paused, and when she remained silent, he added, “Emme, I am not toying with you. If you believe nothing else, you must know that.”
“You patted my hand,” she muttered and tried to look anywhere but at him. His broad shoulders blocked her view of the room, however, so her efforts were for naught.
“I patted your—”
She looked up at him. “You patted my hand and called me ‘enchanting.’”
The corner of his mouth curled up even as his eyes held clear astonishment. “You are enchanting—I apologize if you find it offensive. And as for patting your hand . . .” He paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Would you rather I had kissed you again?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact. Anything other than a brotherly pat on the hand and a laugh.”
“Emme.”
She looked up at his eyes, which was a mistake. They were warm and astute and saw into her soul.
“I would love nothing more than to lock the world away and spend the day alone with you. We cannot do that, so I settled for a compliment—a sincere one, mind you—and an innocent pat on your hand.”
“At least it wasn’t on my head,” she muttered but was inwardly mollified, even happy.
He chuckled, and she braved another look at his eyes, at the mouth so close to her own that had kissed her so desperately back on the beach when he’d been terrified for her.
“Ah, Emmeline,” he murmured, “you mustn’t look at me like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because I shall have to stop right here and kiss you. Perhaps that would prove my sincerity and disabuse your notions about my flirtatious proclivities.”
Her lips curved. “In a room full of people? Detective, how absolutely
