One Tiny Lie (Ten Tiny Breaths, #2)(38)

When the band takes its first break and the boring satellite radio music comes back on, Connor leans over and says into my ear, “I hate to do this, but I’ve got to head out now. I have an early class tomorrow.”

Glancing at my watch, I’m shocked to see that it’s close to midnight. With a big bubble of disappointment rising, I reach back to grab my jacket.

Connor’s hand on my shoulder stops me. “No, you don’t have to go. Have fun.” He’s slurring slightly.

I scan our table to see that everyone has a full drink in hand. Ashton is flipping a paper coaster around in his fingers as he talks to Grant and Reagan. No one else seems ready to go.

Ashton doesn’t seem ready to go.

A tiny surge in my heart tells me I’m not ready to go either.

“You sure?” Maybe I’ m slurring too.

“Yeah. Of course.” He presses a kiss against my cheek and then stands to pull his jacket on. “See you guys. Make sure Livie gets home all right.” He stops as if remembering something. I catch his gaze roll over at his best friend and then settle on me. Gripping my chin with his thumb and index finger, he leans down and places a sloppy kiss on my lips. I feel the prickles at the back of my neck and I instantly know Ashton is watching. “Just don’t drink too much,” Connor whispers in my ear. I roll my tongue to gauge the degree of numbness in response. “You don’t want to wake up with any more tattoos.”

I watch him leave, hyperaware of Ashton’s brown eyes still on me. A ripple of discomfort flows through me and I decide that now is probably a good time to stop drinking, and it has nothing to do with waking up with tattoos. It’s also a good time to use the bathroom. For the fiftieth time.

I’m returning to our table when the band is kicking off their next set with a slow song. The open floor space in front of them is packed with people, some swaying to the music, others there to get close to the edgy-looking lead singer. Ty is busy shooting lascivious smiles at Sun, whom I ran into here tonight and made the mistake of introducing to our table. Ashton seems content just sitting and listening to the music, his hands interlocked behind his head, a strange, peaceful smile on his face.

I see her approach from the other side of the room.

The sultry Latin exhibitionist is closing in on our table again. If her ego was bruised by Ashton’s polite brush-off earlier, it has quickly recuperated and is now gearing up for the second attack. I can’t help but think that Ashton must really be that good if a knockout like her, who could probably seduce the Pope, is willing to take another run at him.

I hope he shoots her down.

What if he doesn’t?

She’s only a few steps away from our table, approaching it from the opposite side. I don’t know why but I rush forward to reach it before she does, tripping over my own feet as I do. I recuperate quickly, but Ashton is facing me and sees the entire thing. It elicits a wide, genuine grin. “Irish, what’s the rush?” he asks just as her long fingernails glide intimately across his bicep. “Come dance with me, Ash.” The sultry is dialed back up again. Man, she’s sure of herself! I wish I could be that sure of myself.

I hold my breath as recognition flitters across Ashton’s eyes. I know he heard her and I know that I don’t want him going anywhere with her. I watch as one arm slides out from behind his head to clamp onto my wrist. “Maybe next time,” he calls over his shoulder as he stands. Before I know what’s happening, his towering body presses up against me and he’s ushering me toward the dance floor.

Adrenaline blasts through my veins.

Once safely in the sea of bodies, I expect that he’ll let go of me, the dodge successful. Just like he manhandled me that day in the bathroom, he again smoothly whips me around, pulling my body close against him. He takes my hands and settles them around his neck and then those fingers of his slide down my arms, down my sides, all the way to my hips.

The music is loud enough that conversation is difficult. Maybe that’s why Ashton leans so close that his mouth grazes my ear to say, “Thanks for saving me.” It sends a shiver through me. “And you don’t need to be nervous around me, Irish.”

“I’m not,” I lie, and I hate that I sound breathless but if he doesn’t stop whispering in my ear, I’m going to . . . I don’t know what I’m going to do.

His hands squeeze me, tugging on my hips, bringing me flush against him—against what I should not be feeling right now. Ohmigod. Ashton’s actually turned on. This is all wrong. My hands slip down to press flat against his chest and yet I can’t will my body to push away as it responds the exact same way I remember from my dream.

“Do you know why I call you Irish?”

I shake my head. I assumed it was because, in my drunken stupor, I divulged my background. Something now tells me there’s more to the nickname than that.

“Well,” he says, with a lascivious grin, “admit that you want me and I’ll tell you why.”

With a stubborn shake of my head, I mutter, “Not a chance.” I may have left my pride on the dance floor that night, but I certainly won’t do it again tonight.

Ashton’s perfect full lips pucker slightly as he stares down at me with intense, thoughtful eyes. I have no clue what he’s thinking, aside from the obvious. Part of me wants to ask outright. The other part is telling myself that I’m an idiot for tripping into this situation. Literally. Then, when Ashton’s thumbs start to stroke over my hip bones and my heart begins to pound against my rib cage, I’m convinced that I should have let the sultry exhibitionist have her way with him because now I’ve really gotten myself into trouble.