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A slow grin takes over his face. “As long as you’re with me, everything will be brilliant. Griff and Brant are over there.” He points. “Let’s go say hi.”

I summon my powers of not being an idiot and go with him. Mav greets them with bro hugs.

“You clean up well.” Mav tips his glass at them.

“We owe our threads to Trevor,” Brant says, looking around. “Are they here yet?”

“He’s waiting to make a dramatic entrance,” I guess.

“Or had to do it one more time in the limo,” Griff snickers.

“Jealous?” Mav raises an eyebrow.

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Who doesn’t want someone who can’t keep their hands off you?” Griff replies.

“Cheers to that.” Brant holds his glass out, and Mav clinks it.

“Fuck yeah,” Mav says, slinging his arm around me as we clink too.

“Gentlemen.” Mr. Dimon approaches our group. “I hope you’re enjoying yourselves. Mr. Brant, I presume that’s nonalcoholic?”

“Ginger ale, sir. Excuse me.” Brant stalks away, grinding his teeth, and Mr. Dimon follows at a slower pace.

“Awkward,” Griff says into his drink.

“What’s their deal?” I ask, watching Brant disappear into the crowd and Mr. Dimon tracking him. “Weren’t they left behind in the snowstorm together?”

“Not ‘together’ together, but Brant’s been pissy at him since.”

I catch Mav’s eye and he shrugs.

Dinner is uneventful; there are a few speeches afterward, and Mr. Dimon informs us he’ll announce the silent auction winners at the end of the night, so the bidding is still open.

“Think we’ll win?” I rub Mav’s thigh. We bid on a week in Italy.

“Nah, rookie contract.” He points to himself. “No way the old-timers will let me win.”

“Bummer.” I hide my smile because I upped our bid.

“Dance with me.” Mav stands and offers me his hand. “Don’t be shocked. This team has indoctrinated me into dance parties.”

“Sweep me off my feet.” I drag him into the middle of the dance floor.

“Let’s hope I don’t knock you off your feet.” He spins me, then drops me into a dip. The guys around us whistle and stomp their feet.

Benz bounds over with Lucky, waving for Drake and Leo to join us. They begin choreographed moves, and Mav bops his head in time with the music. I catch on to the sequence after watching twice and join in.

“King,” Benz bellows, and he appears a minute later. “We got ourselves a professional,” Benz whisper-yells to King.

The team has done this before, so everyone can sort of do the steps. Mav’s face splits into a grin as he dances slightly offbeat, but he’s very proud of himself. The fun is contagious, and soon everyone in the ballroom either joins in or gathers on the edge to watch.

The guys align themselves in a line dance formation, and I step behind Mav with my hands on his hips.

“Follow my lead.” I sway his body to the tempo of the music.

“Always.” He glances over his shoulder and stops my heart.

I keep my hands on him for the next couple of songs, not because he needs correction but because it’s too difficult to let go.