“Take a deep breath, open your eyes, and look at me,” he purred, his tone steady, almost lulling.

Somehow, I obliged. When my eyes fluttered open, I was momentarily taken aback by how sympathetic and sweet he looked, frowning down at me, his brilliant gray-blues studying me.

“This part is crucial, so listen carefully: nobody knows how to dance unless it’s professionally. Nobody. But especially white people from Boston. We are notoriously bad at dancing. If there were Razzie Awards for dancing, my bathroom would be full of statues.”

I bit my lip, stifling a giggle. “Nonsense. You go to lots of parties.”

“Dancing is not my preferred cardio when I attend them, trust me.”

I chuckled bitterly. I glanced around, or at least tried to, but he kept my head screwed in place, palming both my cheeks.

“Now, I’m going to put my hands on your waist, and you are going to not freak out. Then you’re going to wrap your arms around my shoulders, and you are still not going to freak out. Then we are going to sway like drunk babies who just learned how to walk, and even then—you will not freak out. That’s all there is to dancing. Up to the challenge, CT?”

I nodded, swallowing to keep my groggy throat wet. I looped my hands over his shoulders. His hands wrapped around my waist, and we started moving.

I held him like he was made of glass.

He held me like I was made of clouds.

My heart rate subsided, and I inhaled, trying not to think about what an idiot I’d made of myself in the last ten minutes.

Hunter must’ve known I was still gathering my wits, because he kept quiet. I peeked around and saw other couples dancing, getting back to their business. Gerald was seated at his table, oblivious to the mini drama, thank God. Belle was in the far corner of the room in the arms of a handsome stranger in a burgundy suit. Cillian was dancing with a tall brunette next to them, but was scowling directly at Emmabelle. She was laughing loudly, making conversation. I bet the cold fish didn’t like the commotion she brought with her one bit.

Aisling and Persephone were still talking at our table.

The tune drifted into my ears, and I recognized the song. It was an acoustic version of “Truly, Madly, Deeply” by Savage Garden.

Hunter didn’t address my meltdown. I wondered how many people had seen me trying to escape his grasp, but didn’t ask.

“So…ceann beag?” I tilted my head sideways.

“It means little one in Gaelic.”

“Cute.”

“You mean condescending,” he countered. “It is.”

“Do you speak Gaelic?” I knew it wasn’t the most useful of languages, but rich people knew a lot of things others didn’t. Polo, for instance. Or tying a bowtie with one hand. Even though I was Irish through and through, my Irishness was limited to burning instead of tanning, getting freckled whenever there was a hint of sun out, and obsessing over folklore.

Hunter gave me half a nod. “Da’s fanatic about it. It was a bitch to learn.”

“Do you realize the limitless opportunities in knowing this language?” I tried to regain some of my confidence, mustering a smile.

“Not really,” he said dryly, his eyes darting to my lips. “Enlighten me.”

“You can call me anything you want, and I won’t know the meaning of it,” I all but exclaimed. “Carrot Top is nothing. Think outside the box, pretty boy. Let your imagination roam free.”

“So you admit that I’m handsome.”

“I don’t think anyone on this continent can dispute that,” I grumbled.

“Pretty sure I’m hot shit in Australia, too.”

I laughed. He wasn’t wrong. “No. You are virtually perfect, from the outside. But your inside makes you an endangered species. Totally murder-able.”

He examined me quietly, shaking his head and grinning.

“Aingeal dian,” he said. “Well, for the most part.”

“Does that mean crazy bitch?” I screwed my nose, realizing too late that I was trying to be adorable, and wondering what the hell had come over me. I never tried to be endearing, especially where guys were concerned. I always tried to make sure I came off like I couldn’t care less about them.

“If only,” he answered, still staring at my lips.

“What, then?” I filled the space between us with words so he wouldn’t get any ideas. We couldn’t be seen kissing. In fact, I had to show his father we were friendly, but not overtly so.

He frowned. “No. Your ass is gonna Google Translate it.”

“You’re impossible.” I fought a smile, biting down on my lip.

“Impossible? No. Extremely hard? Always.” He narrowed his eyes, but took half a step back so I couldn’t tell if he was speaking the truth.

I quieted, thinking about how he’d been awesome during my public meltdown. If only he wasn’t a sex-crazed, billionaire brat, we wouldn’t want to kill each other.

“Why did they kick you out of that British school?” I whispered.

I wondered what it felt like to be him, to barely know the city you lived in, yet know everybody in Boston knew your business.

“Sex tape.”

“That young?” I nearly shrieked. I knew he’d starred in one a second ago. I wanted to barf every time I thought about it. I’d promised him I wouldn’t Google him, though, and I hadn’t.