When they danced, her body molded against his, moving in perfect sync. She was so close he could feel her heartbeat against his chest, the warmth of her breath ghosting over his skin.
Her fingers toyed with the hem of his shirt, a teasing smirk playing on her lips as she gazed up at him through half-lidded eyes, filled with something unreadable.
To an outsider, there was no question—Ross and Nicole looked like lovers.
Across the room, a few members of the crew exchanged knowing glances. Someone let out a low whistle before chuckling.
"Let me guess—someone's getting lucky tonight," one of the crew members joked, nudging his companion with a smirk.
The others laughed, some shaking their heads in amusement.
But as they watched Nicole press even closer to Ross, as they saw the way he responded—his hands settling instinctively on her waist, his grip tightening just slightly as if to steady himself—the joke didn't seem so far-fetched.
Ross wasn't drunk. Not on alcohol, anyway.
