Hemingway never really knew what it was that attracted him to particular women. Perhaps it was just that they challenged him, they intrigued him, that he saw something in them that enticed him to want to know more. He had his own shortcomings, his own baggage and neuroses and failings. He didn't see that as any different; they were just human, slightly damaged but not broken.
He necked his own drink, and took the offered hand, getting to his feet with her. "Sure thing, Princess," he teased lightly. He wasn't very good at playing it cool, and hiding that jealous streak, taking a bit of a breath at her comment, and then shaking his head slightly. "Would I hell," he practically growled in her ear. "You're mine tonight, Knightly," he told her, not even sure if he was trying to be seductive or not.
"Told you, I'm much more interesting," he teased, eyes wandering over her shimmering form for a moment as he moved to the dance floor with her as the band started with one of Cole's disturbingly appropriate songs.