I could feel every single set of eyes on us.
Ashton was... well, Ashton.
He looked like a walking piece of art.
But not just beautiful.
Dangerous-beautiful.
Like one of those hyperrealistic 3D paintings of a cliff.
Stare too long and you start to feel the drop.
Me? I wasn't bad either.
Maybe a little less angelic than him, but definitely more than presentable.
But I could tell it wasn't the looks that had frozen the room.
It was the way I was linking arms with him—easy, intimate, completely unselfconscious.
Thanks to our multiple rehearsals (which, fine, had paid off), we didn't look like just a party fling.
We looked like the real thing.
I could practically see the thought bubbles forming above every head:
"Isn't that Mirabelle Vance?"
"Wasn'
