Under the table, Wit’s hand went to my knee. “What’s wrong?” he murmured. I didn’t take my eyes off Sarah and Michael. “How do you know something’s wrong?” “Just do.” The back of my neck warmed, and I willed myself not to let it spread to my cheeks. “Nothing’s wrong,” I told Wit and kissed his cheek—once, twice, three times. Across the table, my mom gave me a look. “I’m just dying to dance with you.” “You should be,” he replied lazily. “I am an exceptional dancer.” “Are you now?” “Yes,”
