This Changes Everything

by Gretchen Galway

  She glanced at him and held out her arms like a robot. “Let’s get this over with.”

  Bracing himself for the pleasure of full-body contact, he pulled her close. “Is it the dancing or the company that you object to?”

  Her hand was unyielding in his. “I don’t really like everybody staring. We’re part of the show now.”

  “You perform all the time.”

  “At something I’m good at,” she said.

  “I’m sure you’re just fine.” He slid his hand around her waist and led her between the other pairs of dancers. “Try to relax and let me lead.”

  Her body was as rigid as before. It reminded him of the month he’d tried judo with Mark. As if any second now she was going to hook an ankle around his leg and push him onto the floor.

  “I’m kind of jealous of Trixie’s dress,” she said after a few steps. “I wonder if she’d make me one.”

  “Really? You hate dresses.”

  “I don’t. Why would you think that?”

  “Because you only wear them for work.”

  “I need a special occasion, that’s all.”

  “Yet you didn’t wear one tonight,” he said.

  Her annoyance must’ve helped loosen her up, because she stopped fighting and began dancing. “That’s because I didn’t have one as cool as Trixie’s. I went to the store, and everything was ugly or didn’t fit or was too expensive. But you wouldn’t understand. You’re a guy. You wear a suit and that’s it, problem solved.”

  “I didn’t wear a suit tonight.”

  She scowled at his chest. He’d changed into a fitted blue shirt, open at the throat, and dark pants. “I see that. And you didn’t shave, either. I thought you were going to shave.”

  Not if you like a little stubble. “Sorry,” he said. “Forgot.”

  She cleared her throat. “You’re wearing the chain I gave you for your birthday.”

  His next footwork brought her body closer to his. Holding his breath, he splayed his fingers over her back and tried not to imagine unfastening her bra, how her breasts would tumble forward into his waiting palms. “I always wear it.” His voice was a little rough.

  After a long pause, she said, “I never noticed.”

  The music swelled and so did he. With as much grace as he could muster, he moved her hips a few inches away from his and concentrated on his feet. He’d screwed up the rhythm a few times now and saw that this musical ineptitude made her flinch.

  “Listen for the beat.” She tightened her grip and held him closer. “One two three, one two three.”

  He liked the closeness and wanted more of it. “Would you like to lead?”

  “You could never follow. You’re not the type.”

  “You don’t know everything about me,” he said.

  “I know enough.”

  “Try me.”

  She released him, a daring gleam in her eye. “All right, I will.” She reached out, taking his other hand in hers and wrapping her arm around his waist. Her knee bumped his. “Remember, one two three, one two three.”

  “Yes, mistress.” He lowered his eyes and considered telling her she had nice lips.

  She lurched forward, then twisted, moving him across the floor with wide, smooth steps. She was surprisingly strong, but he couldn’t stop trying to move in the opposite direction.

  And the way she handled him so confidently was turning him on.

  After another minute, she gave up and threw up her hands. “I give up. Let’s give Trixie and Hugo a turn. You’re hopeless.”

  He nodded, following her back to the table, itching to grab her again.

  I am. I really am.

  14

  It turned out that Hugo was an excellent dancer. As in, TV-competition quality. Even the professional dancers, who were probably just unemployed Hollywood wannabes who looked good in Downton Abbey costumes, stepped aside to let Hugo twirl Trixie around the parquet dance floor.

  Cleo was relieved to be sitting down again where she could admire Sly’s uncle’s moves. “Where’d he learn to do that?”

  Sly emptied the wine bottle into his glass. “Uncle Hugo’s full of surprises.”

  “He’s incredible.”

  Looking sour, Sly slumped in his chair and brought the glass to his lips.

  “Are you jealous?” she asked.

  “I never pretended to be a good dancer.”

  “But you like to be good at everything.” She patted his knee. “Sorry I wasn’t a good partner for you.”

  His expression softened. “You were great. It was my fault. Would you like me to ask Hugo for a dance?”

  “If you think he’d enjoy your company, go ahead. Maybe he could give you a few lessons.”

  “Aren’t you funny?” He leaned into her, brushing her cheek with the back of his hand. “I’ll ask Hugo to take you out on the next one. Tell him it’ll give Trixie a chance to watch him.”

  His touch unbalanced her for a moment. “No, thanks. I’m fine.” Twisting her napkin in her lap, she turned to the dance floor.

  Waltzing in Hugo’s arms around the dance floor, Trixie was glowing, her cheeks pink against her silver hair, her eyes bright. She looked about sixteen. At the edge of the floor, Hugo suddenly brought her into a dip, then another spin, and when the song came to an end, she threw her arms around his neck and stared at him as if she didn’t recognize who he was. He held her gaze and said nothing, but a faint smile teased his lips.

  “On the other hand,” she said, “maybe we should go. I think they’re having a moment.”

  Sly turned to look. His eyebrows rose. “I think you’re right.”

  “If we leave now, they won’t have to make small talk with us.”

  Sly signaled the waiter. “I’ll get the check.”

  Another song began, slower than the previous one. Trixie began to walk back to the table, but Hugo caught her hand and pulled her back into his arms like a yo-yo on a string. She laughed, shaking her head, but he insisted. By the time Sly was signing the check, Trixie and Hugo were swaying in small circles near the musicians, no longer making an impression on those around them but, Cleo thought, making a bigger one on each other.

  She grabbed her purse and stood up. “Should I leave a note?”

  “I’ll text Hugo. Not that he’ll care.”

  They walked out of the restaurant past the crowd waiting to get in, some of them in costumes more elaborate than the staff, and found the elevators. She decided to call it a night. The goal was to get Trixie and Hugo together, after all. That situation was looking very promising.

  “Feel free to go to the casino.” She pressed the up button. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Already?”

  “I think it would be better if I stayed away from the slots from now on.”

  He braced a hand against the wall and stared at her, rubbing his jaw. With his hair mussed, his shirt gaping open at the throat, and another two hours’ worth of stubble, he was quite a sight.

  Of course he was good-looking. That wasn’t news to her. Responding to it, however, was a choice.

  Choosing no, she hit the button again. And then again. “You’d think all the money people lose here would pay for faster elevators.”

  “I have an idea,” he said, stabbing the down button. “We’ll walk to the Bellagio and look at the fountains. It has music. You like music. Perfect.”

  “I was going to do that in the morning.”

  “They don’t do the show in the morning. You want to see it at night to get the full effect.” The doors opened with a chime, a red light indicating it was going down.

  From dozens of floors above, her book called to her. Her safe, cozy book.

  But he’d be there in the bed next to her, and he wasn’t as safe and cozy as he used to be. They’d always been physical with one another, but since Carmel, she worried that every little touch was a sign he was getting confused again. He’d admitted he was just lonely, bored, and searching for meaning, shooting arrows i
nto the dark.

  She stepped into the elevator. “Will I need a jacket?”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  The elevator was crammed with the Friday night crowd on their way to fun and fortune. Or despair and disaster. Nobody knew which. She peeked at the young and old faces of all colors and creeds and tried to guess which way it would go for each of them.

  The African-American couple in their sixties looked calm and determined while they talked hurriedly together about their plan for the night. She heard them decide how much of their afternoon winnings they were going to risk tonight (two hundred-fifty each), how many free cocktails they would drink (three for him, two for her), and when to meet back at the fountain under the dancing-elf statue (never; they decided to stay together).

  The women next to them, part of a bachelorette party, were heading to the casino for a few comped drinks before going out to a club for dancing. Based on the signs that they were already drunk, Cleo feared the worst for them.

  The doors opened, and everyone shifted to make room for more people. One of the giggling and swearing women lost her balance, windmilled her thin, bare arms, and smacked Cleo on the shoulder.

  “Oh! Sorry!” She and her friends burst out laughing.

  Cleo, tempted to return the favor, moved away from them, maneuvering into the far corner. She could smell the perfume of a tall woman next to her, which was better than the beer, vomit, and hairspray she’d detected on the bridal party, but was still a bit strong for such close quarters.

  Then the woman turned, exposing her profile.

  No. It couldn’t be.

  “I’m going to kill you guys if anything bad happens to my sister tonight,” the woman said. Her words were harsh, but her tone was playful.

  Yes. It could be. And it was.

  Ashley.

  “If you really cared,” a voice called out, one vaguely familiar to Cleo, “you’d come with us. Some sister you are. Missing my bachelorette party.”

  “I’ll text you after the show and come find you.”

  Cleo had begun to shake. Ashley was here, right next to her, and the man on the other side of her—

  The elevator stopped, the doors opened, and the herd began to move.

  “Cleo?” Sly was looking into her face.

  Blindly, she reached for his hand, laced her fingers through his, and squeezed, trying not to stare at Ashley or—

  Dylan. Now she saw him. In a suit, he looked just like he did in their old wedding pictures.

  “My ex,” she said under her breath.

  Without a word, Sly followed the direction of her gaze, and in the next second was leading her off the elevator with the others. He dropped her hand, moved his arm around her shoulders, and gave her some much-needed support as they walked into the lobby. She felt as if she’d been run over by a bus. One minute, she’d been cheerfully crossing the street, the next—BAM. Airborne. Then landing with a soft, agonizing thud, bloody and bruised.

  They must not have noticed her. Thank God. She could hurry out the door with her head buried in Sly’s shoulder and they’d never see her.

  She plowed Sly across the gleaming marble floor for several long strides, then stopped. Sly didn’t protest, just watched her carefully.

  Maybe he hadn’t let her lead the waltz, but he could follow when it was important. At that moment, she loved him more than she’d ever loved Dylan, that cheating, lying bastard.

  “I don’t have anything to be afraid of,” she said. “Why am I running away?”

  Sly nodded. “He’s skinny. I think I can take him. Can you handle the chick?”

  “I wish. Ashley used to do kickboxing aerobics.” Cleo took a deep breath, furious with herself for reacting so emotionally after all these years. “I’d better say hello.”

  “Why?”

  “For my pride.”

  Sly shrugged. “If you’re sure.”

  “I’m sure.” Pushing her shoulders back, she turned to greet her ex-husband and his current wife, Ashley, who had once asked her, at age twelve, if they could be best friends forever.

  Turned out the answer had been no.

  15

  Sly sized up the ex, concluding he was good-looking, arrogant, and charming, but afraid of Cleo.

  If Sly didn’t hate him for hurting her, he might’ve felt a kinship with the guy.

  “Cleo,” the woman said, her mouth falling open.

  They stood on the marble floor next to the two-story waterfall gushing into a pool filled with flashing lights. Crowds jostled around them on their way to the casino escalators, the shops in the mezzanine, the Strip.

  “I saw you and your sister in the elevator,” Cleo said. For the first time, she turned to her ex-husband. “And Dylan.”

  Sly was impressed by her cool tone. It managed to convey both indifference and disgust. “I’m Sylvester Minguez,” he said, holding out a hand. He’d pretend he’d never heard of Cleo’s ex. No reason for the prick to think he was special.

  Dylan’s eyes widened. Slowly, he took his hand. “The tech guy?”

  “That’s me.”

  Dylan and Ashley had stepped away from each other, as if they were afraid of getting caught fooling around. Sly thought it was kind of late for that.

  “Dylan Baker,” the ex said, his gaze flickering between him and Cleo. “Yorentech. Redwood City.”

  Sly had heard of it but shrugged and shook his head apologetically.

  He dropped Sly’s hand, then belatedly claimed his wife’s. “It’s a new start-up. Just got our first VC.”

  “You’re in marketing?” Sly asked.

  An eager smile warmed his face. “Cleo told you?”

  “No, I just guessed.” Sly didn’t have a high opinion of marketing guys, even if he did plenty of it himself.

  “Well, I just thought I’d say hi,” Cleo said. “We should be going. Give Lizzy my congratulations.”

  “I will,” Ashley said. “Thanks.”

  Sly and Cleo walked away, and nobody said another word. They made their way outside, moving from one throng to another. After the controlled air inside the hotel and casino complex, the fresh air tasted good, even mixed with car exhaust, cigarettes, spilled booze, and fast food. It tasted real.

  Cleo seemed to enjoy it too. She let out a long sigh and took his arm. “That was fun,” she said flatly.

  “You did great.”

  “I haven’t seen either one of them in two years. They’ve aged, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never met them. But I’m sure they look much worse than they used to.”

  She poked him in the ribs. “OK, you’re right. I hope they’re miserable together. I’m petty and small.” But she was smiling. “Am I walking the right way to get to the fountains?”

  “Yes, but it’s about ten minutes from here. Do you mind the walk?”

  “Not at all. I’m dying for it.”

  The Strip was crowded with tourists. Most of them were casually dressed families moving in groups past the chain stores and casinos.

  “I’ve never seen so much neon in my life,” Cleo said. “Holy moly.”

  Sly watched her for signs of emotional upset. When they’d met, she’d just finalized her divorce. She told him her ex had cheated on her with a friend, then joked that she’d chosen Sly as a pal this time around because, she hoped, he wouldn’t be tempted to sleep with her next husband. If she ever married again, which she doubted.

  He’d accepted her explanation, but now he wondered.

  “Your ex-husband reminds me of somebody,” he said.

  “Don’t say Ben Affleck. Please. He thinks he looks like Ben Affleck.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of a movie star.”

  “Good,” she said. “I admit he’s good-looking, but he’s no Ben Affleck.”

  “I didn’t realize you had such a crush on Mr. Affleck.”

  “Not the whole package, just the chin,” she said. “Cleft chins get me every—”

  He gr
inned, rubbing his chin. “Every what?”

  “Yours isn’t a real cleft. It’s a scar.” She waved her hand. “Doesn’t count.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “That’s the neon lights. You’re blushing too. Purple and green.”

  He tried to remember the ex-husband’s chin. He’d been too busy noticing the dark hair, dark eyes, medium height, and strong build. Not too unlike his own. “I thought he looked a little like me,” he said.

  She laughed—not quite naturally. “That’s crazy. He’s nothing like you.”

  “About the same size—”

  “He’s so pale, he burns in the shade,” she said.

  “I obviously have a darker complexion, but otherwise—”

  “His eyes are a medium brown. Yours are dark choc—forget it. Just forget it.”

  “Dark chocolate?” He liked the sound of that. She’d once likened dark chocolate to her favorite sonata. Both made her moan.

  She accelerated, weaving around two men who were each looking at their phones, walking erratically.

  “Which side of the street are the fountains?” she asked over her shoulder.

  He jogged to catch up to her. “This side. Not too much farther.” He was still thinking about dark chocolate and moaning. “You do look a little younger than him. About how old is he?”

  “A little older.”

  “How much, exactly?”

  “Why do you care?”

  He suppressed a smile. “I think it might help you enjoy the show if you talk about him now, get it off your chest. It must’ve been hard to see him with your old friend.”

  “She did look old.”

  “Almost as old as him,” he said. “Which is…?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Same as me. What a coincidence.”

  “You want to remind me of my ex-husband?”

  “I just think it’s interesting I might be your type,” he said. “Physically, I mean.”

  “Gorgeous men are every woman’s type.”

  He couldn’t help but grin at that one. “You think I’m gorgeous?”

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know. I tell you that all the time.”

  “But usually you’re kidding. This is serious.”