Eleven
My feet stumble to a halt. An odd combination of joy and horror rockets through me. Dash’s hair is completely different, as I noticed earlier, and several days’ worth of well-groomed stubble adds to his disguise. But it’s definitely him.
“Don’t stop dancing,” he says, forcing me to jerkily step back in time with the music. Then, after giving the dancers around him a pleasant and entirely fake smile, he hisses, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
Another shocked second passes before I find my voice. “Me? What is wrong with you? How did you even—what did you—do you know what Roarke and Aurora will do if they recognize you?”
“They saw me for all of five seconds that day. They’re not about to recognize me now.”
“But how did you even—”
“What are you doing here, Em? Why are you playi
