XAVIER FOX

“Dance with me!”

Four hours. Three martinis. Two tequila shots.

Old Mags is back, smiling, laughing, dancing, and twirling.

Who needs fairy godmothers when alcohol does the trick?

“Come on!” Her full lips spread wide into a smile that takes up most of her pretty face. Her glassy eyes tell me she’s way past drunk, but I already knew that. We passed drunk a couple of hours ago.

“We should go,” I say, taking a sip of my water. I haven’t touched a drop of the good stuff all night. Someone’s got to take care of her, and I don’t mind because clearly, she needed this more than me. “Bars are closing in an hour.”

And she’s going to feel like shit in the morning if she doesn’t slow down.

Her body shimmies, and she cracks another wide smile. I love this girl. And I don’t mean it in the way people say when they talk about baseball or craft beer or the best man at their wedding.

I love Magnolia Grantham.

A handful of years ago, the world was ours for the taking. She was my best friend. My number one. She called me out on my shit, and I gave everything to her straight. Friday nights were ours. The Chinese takeout spot on her block knew us by name, and everyone who knew of us assumed we were some married powerhouse couple. Our inseparability grew from an organic place, transforming somewhere along the line into a simmering codependence that never truly went away.

Functioning these last two years without Magnolia has been the emotional equivalent of losing a limb.

She takes my hand and threads our fingers, leading me out to the middle of the crowded dance floor where some pseudo-famous DJ spins handcrafted remixes of Top 40 hits. She lifts my hand above her, doing a spin, and then takes my other hand in hers, placing my hands on her hips as she sways to the beat.

Magnolia’s arms rise above her head, and her face turns side to side, her long, dark waves falling around her shoulders. She’s a sweaty, exhilarated bundle of energy who’s showing no signs of slowing down.

The southern beauty queen dances in time, but it’s all slow motion to me. I savor this like it’s all going to be gone the second I wake up tomorrow, because that’s the reality of the situation. I step to the beat, gripping her hips and pulling her into me inch by inch. It’s nice not having her hate me, even if it’s only because she’s temporarily too drunk to remember to do so.

The song ends, and Magnolia pulls sticky strands of hair from her face. I always liked her better with her hair down. Disheveled. Carefree. But I liked her boardroom persona too. She’s a fucking shark when it comes to cutting deals.

It’s why we were perfect together. It’s why we were this close to owning the Manhattan real estate world before we fell apart for reasons unknown.

“Let’s go.” The song ends, and I lead her by the arm toward the side of the dance floor as the next number begins.

She pouts, and I neglect to inform her that I don’t want this night to end either—though I’m sure our reasons differ.

I lead her outside to the shiny red Corvette parked down the street between a platinum Porsche and a snow-white Audi coupe, both with New York plates. The flashing marquee signs and the warm glow of the street lamps paint her in vibrant shades of gold and amber.

I could kiss her right now—a punishing kiss—one that injects years of all-consuming regret from my lips to hers without saying a word. I need to feel her gorgeous smile against my mouth, and I want to press her against me, feeling how my body fills the parts of her that curve and bend.

We walk to the passenger door, and I lean for the handle, unable to take my gaze off Magnolia and the way she radiates right now like every part of her is alive. It’s like I’m staring into a portal with a direct view of the past.

Living history.

This is the girl I fell in love with.

The girl I need to be with.

The girl who belongs to me.

“What?” Her smile fades. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I don’t speak.

“Xavier.” Her brows meet. “What?”

My answer doesn’t come in the form of words. It doesn’t need to.

I smash my lips into hers, my hands cupping her face and my fingers tangling into her soft waves. Our mouths dance in tandem, grazing, smashing, and barely coming up for air. My tongue slips past her lips, finding hers. Magnolia’s body tenses then releases. She’s not fighting the kiss, at least not physically. I can only imagine the war her head and her heart are waging right now, but it’s the least of my concerns.

I’ve craved those lips for years. I’ve missed that smile every single day. This girl, the one who makes all the others fade into the background, is mine.

I need her.

And she may not admit it, but she needs me too.

Millions of women live in the city, but none of them know me the way she does. None of them picked me up when my brother passed away. None of them nursed me back to health after a month in the hospital with a severe case of pancreatitis. None of them put up with my shit or knew how to put me in my place the way she did. Our industry is filled with social climbers and bullshitters. Magnolia is as real as they come.

She’s coming back. I feel it in the way my soul sparks when I claim her honeyed lips.

“Fuck,” I groan into her mouth, my fingers digging into her scalp. “Where have you been, Magnolia Grantham? Why’d you stay away so long?”

Her mouth hardens. Her palms press against my chest. Just like that, I’m losing her all over again.

We don’t float back to earth in some hazy, passionate stupor. We’ve been violently tossed from the fervent stratosphere that temporarily contained us.

“We should get going.” She climbs into the passenger side of the ‘Vette.