The Wedding - Reception - Part 1

The evening had dragged on far too long without anything of note happening between them. Charlotte politely dabbed the non-existent crumbs from her mouth (again) in a weak attempt to keep her hands busy.

She forced her eyes to look across the table and smiled, faking participation in the ongoing chatter across her table. He was quiet though.

She couldn’t tell if he was looking at her, but the warmth of him was unmistakable. The space between their chairs seemed smaller than it ought to be. He shifted his weight in his chair and as he did his knee found hers through the long fall of the linen tablecloth… Was it intentional?

“So. Charlotte!”

His voice raised so high it almost cut across the table and disrupted the ongoing conversation. Hearing him say her name made her skin tingle. She tilted her body in his direction, hoping her flushed cheeks didn’t expose her thoughts to him. As she did, he paused to sip his champagne, instinctively, she copied his action. He measured his voice more carefully and inched his face closer to hers to speak.

“I saw that you’re a Physio now?... Are you enjoying… that?”

“Yeah… It’s alright” she paused, expecting a follow-up question but he offered none. His eyes stayed on hers, quiet and intent, as if waiting for her to reveal something just by looking.

“It can be intense” she continued. “I work primarily in sport and exercise injury rehabilitation, so things like post-surgical recovery, performance optimisation…”

She could feel her brain starting to tune into autopilot mode. As she continued to speak, he leaned in further taking in every word. The reception roared with music, conversations, the clinking of glasses. Yet between them, everything felt quiet… focussed.

She finished her drone.

“What do you do these days?”

Her mind wandered.

What would it be like to feel him close? His hands at her waist? To brush against her in a way that left her breathless? She imagined the heat of his body, the teasing pressure, the quiet tension of not knowing where it might go next. Her heart raced at the thought. Was he the kind of man who could make her ache with just a touch?

He finished speaking. Fuck.

“Sorry. What was that? I couldn’t hear you… Did you say Courier?”

Warmth spread across her skin as he leaned closer to her ear, lingering longer than necessary. She inhaled sharply, more surprised by herself than by him, and turned just enough that her cheek almost met his. Almost. His voice dropped when he spoke again, pitched for her alone.

“Curator… At the Metropolitan Museum.”

He repeated it softly, as if testing how the words felt between them. Heat pooled through her, and she turned to face him fully, expecting him to look away, but his gaze held hers, unyielding. She smiled, knowingly.

He laughed under his breath and leaned back a fraction, giving her space. Or maybe daring her to close it? The knee contact hadn’t broken. If anything, it had settled. Familiar now. Chosen.

Someone at the table clinked a glass and called for attention, the sound of the room swelled again with noise and movement. Charlotte finished her drink, grateful for the pause, for something cool against her lips. When she lowered the glass, she caught him watching her over the rim of his own.

“You still dance?” he asked, casually, as if this were an entirely neutral question.

Her pulse answered before she could speak. "Sometimes.”

“Good,” he said, already standing. “Come on then.”

She should have hesitated. Instead, she let him take her hand.

He guided her hand through the crowded dancefloor to a free spot in the corner before turning to face her. He placed his hands at her waist, polite enough to pass, firm enough to mean something. Her hands settled against his shoulders. They swayed in time, every subtle shift of his body setting her senses alight.

“Is this all right?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she said immediately, then softened it.

“Yes.”

They fit. That was the dangerous thing. Not dramatic, not rushed, just… Easy. Her head tilted slightly, close enough now that his words came close to her ear, making her pulse quicken.

“You’re thinking very loudly,” he said.

She laughed, a quiet sound. “You have no idea.”

His hands shifted slightly at her waist, testing. Her cheeks reddened, caught between wanting to react and keeping control.

When the song ended, neither of them moved away. The next track began. Slower. Heavier. This time there was no pretence of distance.

As the opening notes hit, she murmured, eyes flicking briefly to his, a half-smile tugging at her lips. “Of course they would play this now.”

He grinned.

She swayed to the beat, biting her bottom lip as she restrained the urge to move closer, aware of the heat of him against her. The song finished.

“We should…” she started, flustered.

“Yes,” he agreed, though he didn’t say what to.

They disentangled reluctantly, hands slipping apart with the promise of friction. He leaned in one last time, his lips close to her ear again.

“Later,” he whispered. Not a question.

She nodded, her fingers still tingling from his touch.

Whether later meant the terrace, a hallway, or his hotel room didn’t matter, yet. For now, it was enough to return to the table flushed, breathe a little too quick, carrying the quiet knowledge that something between them had shifted, irrevocably.