Four Seconds to Lose (Ten Tiny Breaths, #3)(45)

“Thanks, Ben,” I offer. Ben is usually the one rescuing me.

He flashes those dimples at me. “Beating guys off you is my job.”

“And beating off is your hobby. Hey! Ho! . . .” Ginger sings, following it up with a silly arm-waving dance, earning chuckles from the patrons around us.

I roll my eyes but laugh. “Well, either way. Can you believe he offered me a grand?” I peer up at Ben’s pleasing face with incredulity. We’ve ended up chatting a bit over the last couple of weeks, enough that I might call him a friend. An attractive, funny, sometimes offensive friend who would have his pants undone in under two seconds if I invited it.

But still a friend.

“I’m not surprised in the least.” His eyes slide down for a split second and I know he just stole a glance at my cleavage. Ben’s a boob guy. And a leg guy. And an ass guy. “But I’m glad you’re not taking it.”

“Yeah.” I shift my body slightly to wipe up the rest of the beer with my cloth. Why is that, again?

“How’s everything out here tonight?” the familiar smooth male voice behind me asks, and a blip of nerves spikes in my stomach. Turning, I find Cain flanking my other side, one hand resting on the bar, the other sitting in his pocket.

Oh, that’s right. Because my sexy boss—who allows everyone else to—won’t allow me. Ginger said his reasoning doesn’t make sense. It’s busy enough that, if I were to do one or two private dances a night, none of the other dancers would get her feathers in a bunch over it. Except for China, of course, but she’s pissed with me no matter what.

“All handled,” Ben mutters, taking a step back, a mixture of annoyance and amusement on his face. “Just another guy who finally grew a set and approached Charlie. Probably comes here every night to watch her dance.”

A rare flash of anger sparks in Cain’s eyes, but it quickly vanishes at the sound of Ginger’s voice. “Cain! What a surprise!” The playfulness in her tone is impossible to miss.

Those two have no shame when it comes to teasing their boss. Then again, apparently neither do I. Only, I’m doing it in a very different way.

Cain ignores them, turning his focus on me. “How are things going for you, Charlie?”

My mouth opens but I falter for a second. “Uh, good . . . Good.” He’s talking to me. It’s been weeks and he’s actually talking to me. Peering up into that gorgeous face as his eyes settle on me, I feel heat instantly rush up my thighs. Thanks to the unconventional and completely unfulfilling foreplay between us, I’m feeling all kinds of awkward right now.

His gaze drifts down to my chest and then snaps back up. I let a satisfactory smile touch my lips so that he knows I caught him. Could Cain actually be attracted enough to me to do something about it? It’s impossible to tell. I’ve spent time studying him: his face is usually without expression, regardless of the situation. Like mine. I wonder if he comes by it naturally—like me—or if he has consciously trained himself to be so unreadable. His hands remain still when he talks, and when he’s listening to others speak—which is often, because Cain seems to prefer listening—he’ll absently trace the rim of his glass with his fingertip.

He has no issues with eye contact, though. Those dark brown eyes drill right into you. You get the feeling that he’s mentally trapping your words for future reference.

He has only a few habitual moves. The most common is when his hand absently rubs the side of his neck, behind his left ear. Where that tattoo is. And, occasionally, when he catches me studying him, his top lip will curl up on one side in a crooked smile.

And he’s caught me staring at him. A lot.

“Things are fine, Cain,” I offer, adding, “Though it’s hot. Miami’s hot.” The weather. Boring, but safe.

He shifts his body to face out, his elbows resting on the bar, stretching the material of his shirt over his taut chest. In the club, Cain always wears a fitted button-down shirt and dress pants that highlight his ass nicely. With the air cranked to the max, he can easily get away with it.

And dammit if it doesn’t make him even more attractive.

My nose catches a hint of his delicious woodsy cologne and I inhale deeply.

“That’s right, you’re not from here originally. Where are you from?”

“Indianapolis.”

He nods slowly. “Did you live there long?”

“All my life.” The trick to keeping the lies straight is to make them simple to remember. Charlie Rourke is from Indianapolis. Period.

I watch as Cain lifts his glass to his lips to take a small sip, holding a bit of the liquor in his mouth for a moment before the muscles in his throat tense to swallow. Hell, even his swallows are sexy. “And your parents? Are they still there?”

My gut tells me this is a fishing expedition, and that makes me nervous to say anything at all. “Yup.”

His gaze rolls over the crowd again, never stopping on the stage as the dancer named Delyla peels off another layer. “Do they know about you dancing?”

I frown and shake my head. That sounds like the right answer. What parents would want to know their kid is doing this? Sam actually did know about my pole-dancing lessons. He didn’t seem to care about it. It worked well as a cover. I’d hand a small bag to one of the managers there once a week before class.