Tonight, everyone had seemed to want to talk to her, not just her circle of friends. It was . . . nice.
Kate always enjoyed her friend circle, but she was also sensitive to the fact that she was a fifth wheel. Seventh wheel, if you counted Kennedy and Claudia, though she preferred not to. She loved spending time with Lara and Sabrina. And with Matt, Ian, and Kennedy. But with all of them together, Kate couldn’t help but feel apart somehow. And maybe just a tiny bit jealous.
Tonight, though, she’d felt like part of a unit, with Jack Dawson of all people.
Kate was no dummy. She knew Kennedy’s brother had heartbreaker written all over him. The man was so charming it should be illegal, and she’d watched as one woman after another had gone literally breathless when he’d spoken to them.
And yet he’d stayed with her almost the entire evening, up until his father had dragged him away to talk to Something Something the Fourth, and Kate had politely begged off in the name of sore feet.
More surprisingly, Jack had seemed to stay with her all night because he wanted to, not because he needed her to fix something for him or solve a problem. He seemed to like her, just as she liked him. He was easy to be around. And yet . . .
A large male figure came up beside her, suited arms resting on the railing beside hers. “What’s with the stork routine?”
She turned her head to look at Kennedy. “The what?”
He lifted one foot, then the other. “Stork.”
“You try wearing these shoes.”
He glanced down knowingly. “Ah. We could sit?”
Her stomach did something stupid at his use of the word we. “Nah, I’m good. Plus, I tried that for about two minutes, but every time someone came to talk to me, I either had to stand or crane my neck.”
“You’re short. Don’t you always have to crane your neck?”
She let out a little laugh and dropped her head forward as she muttered, “You look nice, Kate. Thanks for being here, Kate.”
“What?”
She turned slightly to face him. “Nothing. Do you need something?”
He scowled. “Why is that your assumption?”
“Because I’m your assistant.”
“You’re my friend.”
“Am I?” she said, more to herself than him, as she turned back to the view below the balcony.
He touched her elbow briefly, and she felt a corresponding tingle in her palm. “You don’t think we’re friends?”
“I don’t know what we are, Kennedy.”
He turned toward her. Studied her. “We’re different, huh?”
“You and me?” She turned slightly toward him, trying to figure out what was behind his strange mood.
He lifted his shoulders. “Me and Jack.”
“Definitely,” she said with a laugh.
He looked away, and she had the uncomfortable sensation that maybe she’d hurt his feelings.
“The world only needs one Jack,” she replied softly.
He searched her face. “You two were pretty inseparable all night.”
She didn’t pretend not to know what he was talking about but kept her answer vague. “Not really.”
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t really know,” Kate admitted. “He’d mention a restaurant we both wanted to try or an exhibit we both wanted to see, and he kept saying things like, ‘We should go!’ But I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a date or was just being polite.”
Kennedy turned and faced the railing again, his turn to study the street below. “Probably a date,” he said. “Though for what it’s worth, he’s lying if he says he’s excited about museum exhibits. They’re not his thing.”
“Well, maybe you could lend him your season tickets,” she teased. She knew Kennedy loved his museums.
He rewarded her with a half smile that revealed his left dimple. “Never.”
“Nerd.”
“They’re underappreciated,” he said, his tone a little gruff, as though embarrassed but unable to keep from defending New York’s museums.
“They are,” Kate agreed, deciding to give him a break. “It kills me how often they’re derided as tourist traps. So many locals take them for granted.”
“But not you?” he asked skeptically.
“Well, I’m not going to start collecting globes and crap like you, but yeah . . . I do love a good museum,” she said. Kate didn’t have a specific passion for art, or history, or science. She just liked knowing that museums existed. She liked the feeling of stepping outside New York to a different world, whether it be Impressionist paintings, quirky modern art, or the planetarium, all without actually leaving New York. “Our secret?”
“That we’re cultured?”
She laughed. “I’m cultured. You’re pretentious.”
“Prove it.”
“That you’re pretentious?” she asked, excited at the prospect. “Where to begin. Let’s see, you always—”
He stopped her words, not with a retort or even the usual scowl but by reaching out and setting his fingers against her mouth.
They both froze, and her eyes flew to his. It wasn’t a caress, but neither was it a playful shut-up kind of gesture. It was somewhere in between, his three middle fingers resting lightly over her mouth, his pinkie finger brushing against her jaw, softly, as if by accident.
He met her eyes for only a second before his gaze dropped to his fingers. He frowned slightly, as though puzzled to find himself touching her. But he couldn’t be half as puzzled as she was.
Or as electrified.
Slowly, Kennedy let his hand drop, his fist clenching hard and fast, so quickly she thought she’d imagined it, before he resumed his former position, casually, as though nothing had happened at all. “I didn’t mean list the ways I’m pretentious. I meant tell me the ways you’re cultured.”
“Ah.” She tried to gather her thoughts, but she could still feel the warmth of his touch. Wanted to replay it a thousand times over. Wanted to ask her friends what the heck it had meant . . .
He’d asked her something. What was it? Right, culture.
“I used to dance.”
He gave her a skeptical look.
“Ballet,” she clarified, “until I was seventeen and decided I didn’t want it badly enough to go all the way. I probably wasn’t talented enough, either. But I still love it. I’d go more often if it wasn’t so expensive.”
“I didn’t know that about you.”
She shrugged. She doubted Matt or Ian did, either. “It’s not your job to know things about me. It’s mine to know things about you.”
He was quiet for a moment, looking thoughtful. “What else?”
“Um . . .” She bit her lip and considered. “I love old books. I mostly just read classics on my Kindle, because my apartment’s too small to keep much of anything. Someday, though, I’m going to have a collection of first editions. Or second or third editions. Whatever. But, I should be honest, I’m also really into young adult books. If it’s for a teen, I love it. If it’s got a vampire or an alien and a love story, I really love it. Go ahead. Judge.”