Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

Schmoozing a Kline board member. Fantastic. “Did you know we’d be here?”

His mouth twitched. “Despite your impression of me, I don’t know everything.” His eyes slid down my body, following the shimmery flares in the green fabric. They seemed to remember themselves halfway through, and abruptly skittered back to my face.

We couldn’t just stay here, in the middle of a crowded room. Staring in silence. “Are you really going to play golf with him?” I asked.

“Probably. Unless the Virgin Mary appears to Florence in a fever dream and orders her to turn over the documents we need.”

“I believe she’s an atheist.”

“Golf it is, then. Or do you want to talk her into it?”

“Me?”

“Why not, if Kline has nothing to hide?”

I snorted softly. “Why would I?”

“To spare me from the dumbest fucking sport in the universe?”

I smiled. Then my amusement darkened. “He’s disgusting.”

“Who?”

“Sommers.”

“Yeah. Most men who are his age and wield his power are.”

“Doesn’t give him a pass.”

“No,” Eli agreed, with the tone of a choir who wasn’t sure why they were being preached at. “Believe me, I want to see them crash and burn just as much as you do.”

“Sure you’re not one of them?”

Emotions passed on his face, all too fast to decipher. Then he started, unhurried: “My mother had a beautiful silver ring, one of those priceless heirloom pieces passed down for more generations than I could count. All the women in my family, that kind of stuff. When Mom died, I took the ring and set it aside, thinking I’d give it to my sister when she was old enough. But then, a little while later, she really, really wanted to go on a trip with her friends, and

I—I just didn’t have the money to send her, you know? So I told myself, easy fix. I’ll pawn the ring, and then repay the loan on time.” His smile was mournful. I didn’t need him to spell out the ending for me. “A few months later, she brought the ring up. Asked me if I knew where it was. And I pretended to have no idea what she was referring to.”

I looked at his open, unflinching eyes, and wished I could ask, How old were you? and How did your mother die? and Why do you keep doing this, baring the worst, most vulnerable and squishy parts of yourself to me? Instead, what I did was bare something of mine. Something dreadful. “When I was eleven, I stole thirty-four dollars and fifty cents from a drawer in my best friend’s house.” I forced myself to hold Eli’s gaze through the shame of it, just like he’d held mine. “They never locked anything when I was around, because they trusted me. They treated me as their own. And I stole from them.”

He nodded, and I nodded, a tacit agreement that we were both terrible people. Telling terrible stories. We’d let our masks slip enough times that they now lay shattered on the floor, but it was okay.

We were okay.

Then the band began playing, and the understanding between us snapped. Eli returned to his amiable default setting as the notes purred softly, shaped into something soothing and smooth that perfectly matched the blandness of the gathering. Several couples began swaying.

“We should dance,” Eli offered. There were no tells that he was joking.

“Should we? Why?”

He shrugged, and abruptly he seemed lost, as uneven as I always felt in his company. “Because I like your dress,” he said, non-sensically. It occurred to me, for the first time since our meeting three nights ago, that maybe he didn’t want this, either. Maybe he, too, was desperately fighting off this inexplicable attraction between us. Maybe his success was just as abysmal as mine. “Because I like you. As a person.” His eyes were teasing all of a sudden. Warm. “Even if you don’t like me.”

“You don’t know me,” I pointed out.

“No.” He offered his hand. I want to touch you, though, that outstretched arm seemed to say. When our fingers met, the electricity thrumming between us felt like free fall and relief.

“Okay, then.”

He didn’t plaster my body to his, and I was glad, not sure whether I’d have been able to take that much contact. My dress was long sleeved and high backed, offering few points of possible skin-on-skin contact. But his hand enfolded mine, and when his big palm ran down my spine, our breaths hitched at the same time.

“I can’t remember the last time I danced,” I murmured, mostly to myself. Not like this, for sure. It was barely related to the music, just an excuse for people to stand closer than appropriate.

“You don’t spend your Friday nights on dinner cruises?”

“Do you?”

He tut-tutted. “You know where I spend my Friday nights, Rue.”

We fit well. Because of our heights, likely. I could smell the skin of his neck, clean and spice and something a little dark. “Do you really meet a different woman every Friday night?” It was an unexpectedly dismaying idea. What did I care if—

“Excuse me,” someone interrupted us, and we instantly took small steps back from each other, recovering the distance that had drifted closer. It was a middle-aged woman, pointing at the camera she was carrying. “May I take a picture of you two? It’s for Mr. Sommers’s retirement album.”