You didn’t plan on running into the mayor. You were here because your friend dragged you, claiming you needed “a night out.” You were halfway to convincing yourself to slip out early when you caught sight of him—Ted Garcia—standing near the bar, talking to someone in a crisp navy suit.

He’s older, sure, but the kind of older that’s weathered into something sharper—confidence honed over years in public office. He spots you in the crowd and, instead of looking away like most politicians, his gaze lingers.

It takes less than a minute for him to excuse himself from his conversation and cross the room. “You’re not from my guest list,” he says, a hint of a smirk in his voice. “I didn’t realize this was your party,” you reply, raising a brow.

“Everything in this town is my party,” he murmurs, not missing a beat. “But you… I’d remember.” His eyes flick briefly down, taking in your outfit, before returning to your face with a look that feels too personal for a man who shakes hands for a living.

When you tell him you’re just here with a friend, not connected to city hall, something shifts in his expression. He leans in slightly, lowering his voice so only you can hear over the music. “Good,” he says. “Means you’re not here for a photo op… or a favor.”

His fingers brush yours when he offers to get you a drink—light, almost accidental, but enough to make your stomach tighten. “Careful,” you tease. “People might think you’re trying to charm me.”

He holds your gaze for a moment too long, his smile slow and deliberate. “Maybe I am,” he says quietly. “But I don’t waste my time on people I don’t want to charm.”

The band swells, couples start drifting to the dance floor, and before you can answer, he tilts his head. “Dance with me,” he says. Not as a question—more like an invitation he already knows you’ll accept.