Kate Hewitt - Highly Unsuitable

Smiling at her radiant friend, Emily followed them down the aisle. She made sure to keep her face averted as she passed the last pew.

Of course she couldn’t avoid Jason for ever. She tried to, and managed it through drinks and dinner. Her duty as bridesmaid kept her close to Stephanie’s side, straightening her veil, fetching her a glass of water, smiling until her cheeks ached for the requisite round of photographs.

Yet when the dancing started and Stephanie and Tim took the floor, Jason headed directly to her and she realised she’d been waiting—and even expecting—him to. Emily’s heart started a heavy thud of anticipation as she watched him stride across the ballroom, as purposeful and self-assured as always. His hair and eyes both glinted near-gold in the dim lighting and she could see the ripple of muscles under his immaculate suit, the easy shrug of his shoulders as he walked.

She wondered what he was going to say to her, if he would mention the kiss. Should she act unconcerned, indifferent, as if she’d already dismissed it as the nothing encounter it surely was—for him, at least? Yet that would be an act, and he would surely know it. He’d probably tease her about it, but at least then they would be on familiar footing.

Her palms grew slippery as she clutched her flute of champagne. She wished she’d reapplied her lipstick. She also wished she wasn’t wearing a poufy, too-tight bridesmaid dress in shocking pink satin.

‘Care to dance?’

The words shocked her, brought her back to the last wedding she’d attended with Jason, when he’d asked the same question and held his hand out in just the same way … and she’d been wearing pink satin then too. Some things never changed.

‘Fine,’ she said, realising that sounded a bit ungracious.

Jason, however, just smiled, although Emily saw his eyes didn’t respond. They still held that same hard determination, and Emily wondered at its source.

She placed her hand in his, let his fingers enfold hers as he led her onto the small parquet dance floor. His other hand rested on her waist, warm and large, his fingers splaying across her hip.

The band was playing a low, lazy tune, something you only needed to sway to. Emily kept her gaze focused in the region of Jason’s chin as they moved to the music. They were closer than six inches apart this time, and this was no boring waltz. She could feel the heat from his body, inhaled the tang of his aftershave. He was a good dancer, she realised with some surprise; he swayed well, his movements languorous, even sexy, his sure hands guiding her to his own lazy rhythm.

Emily could not look him in the face. She felt agonisingly aware of him, and also of the memory of dancing with him seven years ago. She’d been so affected and overwhelmed by him then. Clearly nothing had changed.

Jason touched her chin with his finger. ‘Can’t you look at me?’

Reluctantly, Emily forced her gaze upwards. ‘Of course.’ Yet when she took in the blaze of his eyes, the wry twisting of his lips, she wished she hadn’t risen to his challenge. She couldn’t look at him. She couldn’t tell what he felt. Or if he was thinking about their kiss the way she was … with every nerve and muscle of her body.

Involuntarily she’d stiffened, the memories and uncertainties causing her to stop their slow dance, and Jason gently nudged her hip with his hand, forcing her to move again. Sway. Her hip came into gentle contact with his and she felt a lightning shaft of awareness. Bone against bone. She angled her body away from his, which was difficult considering how close he was holding her.

‘Are you acting so skittish because I kissed you?’ he asked in that practical, matter-of-fact way that was so essentially Jason, and at this moment Emily did not know how to respond. All her witty retorts seemed to have evaporated. Banter was beyond her.

‘Ah, yes, that kiss,’ she finally said, her tone sounding cringingly false and even hearty. ‘How could I forget?’

‘It would be a poor reflection on me if you had forgotten,’ Jason observed.

She risked a glance upwards; he was gazing at her with a steady, intense assessment that was more unnerving than any glower or scowl. He looked like he was trying to understand her, and surely she didn’t want that. ‘You mean on your kissing abilities?’ she queried flippantly. Or at least as flippantly as she could.

‘Quite. However,’ Jason continued, pulling her closer again so their hips gently collided once more, sending a shaft of agonising awareness low through her pelvis, ‘I know you didn’t forget, and I’m in no doubt of my own abilities.’

Emily let out a little huffy laugh. ‘That’s a bit arrogant.’

‘Is it?’ Jason touched her chin with his thumb, angling her face upwards. His mouth was a whisper away from hers. ‘You wanted me to kiss you seven years ago, Em. Things haven’t changed that much, have they?’

‘Actually, they have,’ Emily retorted, her words sharpening. She did not want to be reminded of that night, not when Jason’s kiss—and her own humiliating response—was so fresh and raw in her mind. Her heart. Things had changed; she was different. ‘In any case, Jason, if you meant that kiss as some kind of proof, I’m sorry to say it failed.’

‘Proof?’ Jason repeated. He sounded genuinely puzzled. ‘Proof of what?’

‘That Richard’s not boring,’ Emily said impatiently. He’d told her so himself, so why was he looking at her as if she had just said something utterly nonsensical? ‘You said,’ she reminded him. ‘Remember?’

In one quick yet fluid motion, Jason guided her off the dance floor. Emily could barely keep up with him, tripping in her heels, his hand now encircling her wrist, as he led her from the crowded ballroom to a small secluded lounge off the lobby of the hotel. The sudden silence unnerved her, left her defenceless. All she could hear was the ragged tear of her own breathing, and all the words that hadn’t yet been said.

Jason stared at her for a long moment, spots of colour high on his cheekbones although his eyes were assessing and cool. ‘What?’ Emily demanded. ‘You told me yourself, Jason.’

‘I know I did,’ he said, his voice as calm and measured as always despite the colour still flaring in his face, ‘but only because you needed a reason.’ A faint smile flickered over his features. ‘As far as responses to a kiss go, “What was that for?” is fairly insulting.’

‘But logical,’ Emily returned. ‘Why else would you kiss me, Jason?’

Jason’s eyebrows rose. ‘Why else?’

‘You never wanted to before.’

He kept staring at her, his brow furrowed now as if he were figuring out a complicated maths problem … or her. Emily crossed her arms over her chest, the pink satin stretching alarmingly across her breasts. She was really beginning to regret this dress.

‘Is this about the time we danced at Isobel and Jack’s wedding? All those years ago? How I supposedly humiliated you?’

He sounded so disbelieving that Emily knew he didn’t know. Hadn’t seen how she’d bolted from the dance floor in tears. Although it amazed her that he hadn’t noticed; she’d felt so obvious and exposed. ‘It was a long time ago, I know,’ she said stiffly. ‘And of course it hardly matters now—’

‘Of course it does matter,’ Jason cut across her, ‘since we’re having this conversation.’

‘I just felt very rejected,’ Emily said, her words stilted and stiff, each one drawn from her with the utmost reluctance. She had wanted to banish this memory, had convinced herself she had. Yet seeing Jason again—having him mention it after so many years of silence—brought it all rushing back, made her realise afresh how painful that little episode had been. She couldn’t laugh about it now; maybe she never had been able to.