I grab two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hand one to Serena before downing my own, softening the sharp edges of whatever that was out there. One more drink and things are feeling normal again. I let the evening unfold around me. I stand with my brothers and Serena and Harper and Izzy. I make jokes, I laugh. Mama comes and goes as she works the room, introducing us to sponsors as she passes. Then we’re ushered into the huge glass atrium, set with dining tables and silverware.
Don Hubert gives a moving speech about his father’s passion and drive to create the Stormhawks and help the people of Denver. Then the awards are handed out. First, a local teacher from East High, recognized for starting a literacy and mentorship program that now reaches across the city. A firefighter steps up to applause, his crew having rescued two families in last summer’s wildfires. Then a nonprofit founder who created safe housing for at-risk teens. Each story draws cheers, some tears, and the kind of pride that makes me grateful to call this city home.
And finally, Dylan receives his Heart of the Community award, delivering an emotional speech about the impact of the Stormhawks outreach program—giving underprivileged kids access to coaching, equipment, and the joy of football practice. He talks about how it’s changed lives, and how it’s changed himtoo. He runs the ranch full-time, but still finds the hours to give back, roping Jake and me in whenever we can.
When the band starts to play, Jake nudges my foot under the table and leans in. “Round two, bro. Time to show off those moves Mrs. Conley taught us in high school.”
I huff a laugh, remembering the awkward dance lessons the principal ran once a week in the run-up to prom, hoping that by teaching us to dance, it would keep the prom respectful, even though year after year, it never did. I throw a glance at Serena and raise my brows in question. She shoots me a “why not” shrug, and I grab her hand.
“I hope you remember the steps,” she teases as I draw her to me in the center of the dance floor.
“After the way Mrs. Conley drilled the waltz into us every day for weeks, how could I forget?”
Serena turns to face me, resting her free hand gently on my bicep. “I swear the waltz was the only dance she knew.”
“Posture, Chase. Where is your posture,” I whisper in Serena’s ear, mimicking the outraged cry of Mrs. Conley.
Serena giggles as we start to move. It’s stilted at first, but then we find the rhythm and glide around the other dancers. Serena rattles off more facts about mountain lions. We joke. We laugh. Then from the corner of my eye I spot Ryan eyeballing us from the bar.
He’s leaning against the bar with a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, eyes narrowed. My jaw ticks and my grip on Serena’s back tightens a fraction. There’s something about this guy that doesn’t sit right with me. And it’s not just because he dated Serena. I really have tried to like her boyfriends over the years, but none of them have come close to measuring up in my book. As far as I’m concerned, not a single one of her exes has ever realized how amazing Serena is. And they sure as helldidn’t spend every minute of every day showering her with the adoration and love she deserves.
But this guy? I can’t decide if I want to wind him up or put him on his ass. But considering our location and our fake date plan tonight, I settle on the former.
“I’m gonna dip you,” I murmur in Serena’s ear.
“Seriously? Mrs. Conley did not teach us this.”
“I’ve got my own moves.” I smile wickedly at her, then I guide her into a smooth spin, our bodies swaying to the beat. As we come out of it, I step closer, my hand sliding down the silk of her dress to support her lower spine. With a playful flourish, I dip her low, enjoying the way her blonde hair tumbles away from her shoulders and her smile widens.
When I pull her up, I move us closer.
“I think Mrs. Conley would say you weren’t respecting my dance space,” Serena whispers, but her hand slides around my back.
“We’re being watched,” I say against her ear, drawing in the sweet floral scent of her perfume. “Run your hand over my ass.”
She snorts. “I thought we agreed that was against the rules.”
“You know what they say about rules,” I quip.
“What’s that?”
“Made to be broken.”
She laughs.
“It’s a good ass,” I tease.
“That’s not the point.”
“It’s very firm,” I add, enjoying the way her eyes flicker with amusement and disbelief.
“OK. You can stop talking about your ass now.”
“We’re putting on a show, remember?” My own fingers trail down her back, moving lower. “Don’t be a chicken,” I whisper.
“I seem to remember the last time you called me a chicken; we were ten, and you were daring me to sneak into the barn with you after dark.”
“You were being a chicken then too,” I chuckle.