The music had slowed again, the singer’s voice melting over the crowd like honey. My head rested against Mr. Scott’s chest, the steady beat of his heart thudding beneath the fabric of his shirt. We’d been on the dance floor for what felt like hours, swaying and spinning, glasses of champagne punctuating each song until my body thrummed with heat and the tipsy buzz of alcohol. 

He wasn’t drunk. Tipsy, yes, looser than I’d ever seen him. He was still very much in control of himself. ...