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"Oh come on," the coordinator pushes. "Everyone else answered!"

I scan the crowd desperately and spot Matt at the back, watching with those perceptive eyes. He raises his glass slightly, a silent acknowledgment that he knows I'm floundering.

Then, inexplicably, he mouths something at me.

It takes me a second to lip-read, but when I catch it, I could kiss him. Actually kiss him.

"The karaoke incident," I say smoothly. "When Catherine thought she was auditioning for The Voice but was actually just screaming Lady Gaga into a hairbrush on the quad."

The crowd erupts in laughter. Catherine squeals, "Jackie! You promised never to tell!"

I shrug, all faux innocence. "Sorry, bestie. The people demanded answers."

Crisis averted. But why would Matt help me? What game is he playing?

The coordinator moves on to the next question, which I manage to answer correctly thanks to my research. When the game finally ends (I place third, respectable enough), I make my way through the crowd toward Matt, determined to figure out his angle.

But Catherine intercepts me, dragging me onto the dance floor where the band has shifted to something slower andmore romantic. "Dance with me! Greg's doing shots with his groomsmen and I need my bestie!"

So I dance with the bride, then with her cousin, then with one of Greg's friends who has wandering hands I expertly deflect. All the while, I'm aware of Matt circling the periphery, never quite approaching but always watching.

It's past eleven when the band announces the last song. I'm contemplating slipping away. I've fulfilled my duties, made a respectable showing, survived the game without completely blowing my cover, when a warm hand lands on the small of my back.

"Dance with me."

It's not a question. Matt's palm is firm against my back, guiding me onto the dance floor before I can object.

The band plays something slow and bluesy, the kind of song designed for bodies to press close together in the warm Carolina night. Matt's hand slides to my waist, the other taking mine, holding it against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat.

"Why did you help me?" I ask, because I can't stand not knowing. "With the game."

His lips quirk into that almost-smile. "Maybe I didn't want to see you crash and burn publicly."

"How gentlemanly," I say dryly. "Or maybe you just want to be the one to expose me privately."

He pulls me closer, his breath warm against my ear. "There are many ways I'd like to expose you, Jackie."

The heat in his voice sends a shiver through me. My body responds embarrassingly quickly, melting against him almost involuntarily.

"Why are you here?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear. "What's your angle?"

"I told you?—"

"The truth," he interrupts. "Just between us."

I hesitate. Telling him would violate my contract with Catherine, my professional ethics, everything I've built my business on. But there's something about the way he's looking at me, like he genuinely wants to understand rather than judge.

"I can't," I say finally. "Client confidentiality."

His eyebrows lift. "So you are working for her."

Damn it.

I've already said too much.

"I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." His hand tightens on my waist, drawing me impossibly closer. Our bodies are flush now, his thigh between mine as we sway to the music. "You're not who you say you are, are you?"