Soft jazz music drifted through the open ballroom as Mr. Ismael Rivera gently took my hand. For a moment, the entire ballroom faded. His warm palm against mine, the weight of his gaze—steady and unsure at the same time—made my heart stutter.
“Sabi mo, one dance lang ‘to, ha,” I whispered, trying to mask the kilig swirling inside me.
“Just one,” he said, voice low. “Pero honest.”
His hand slid to the small of my back, and I followed his lead. Our bodies swayed slowly in sync with the music. He wasn’t the best dancer, but he was steady—and with every turn, every light step, it was as if he was memorizing how I moved. I bit my lower lip, conscious of how close our faces were.
Damn it, Pinky. This is your boss. This is your panata. This is Callie’s fiancé.
But he was looking at me like I
