How to Fail at Flirting(53)

“No . . .” He glanced over my shoulder and glared, presumably at old Bert, before meeting my eyes again. “He’s just an ass. No one else would think that.”

“Maybe they think I’m your accountant?”

He took just a moment before he caught on to my playful tone. “Itemize me, baby.”

“Your barber?”

“I do like your fingers in my hair.”

“Or your nurse.”

“So many fantasies . . . I’d make sure they knew you were a doctor, though.” He spun me unexpectedly and then pulled me back to the solid wall of his chest.

“That would be very nice of you.”

He shrugged with a boyish grin. “I’m a nice guy.”

“You are.”

“Hey,” he murmured into my ear, pulling me to him. The puff of breath spurred on the low-level heat between my legs. “You’re dancing with me again.”

“I am.” I lifted my chin and pulled his lips to mine. “It’s not so scary with you.”

His gaze was hungry as his grip tightened around my waist. We shared a fleeting, intense look as we swayed with the music, our hands curled together. When we did that, he’d always sweep the pad of his thumb up the middle of my palm, a place I’d never known was an erogenous zone until him. That slow, soft touch felt like something special we shared, like when our hands were linked, it was him and me versus the world. I dragged my own thumb against the underside of his wrist, prolonging the connection but unsure what he was seeing in my face. I wasn’t sure if he could tell I was scared of this thing between us.

I broke the connection, moving my thumb off his wrists and glancing away. “Now, we should find that old, racist drunk and hit him up for more money.”

“You can’t look like that, touch me like this, and expect me to voluntarily talk to that arrogant windbag.” He dipped his head to my ear, and I melted into him, my entire body on full alert. “Really, I’d like to get out of here and . . .” His warm breath made me gasp—a small, involuntary sound escaped my lips. “Spend the rest of the night memorizing how every inch of you tastes.”

I nodded, wide-eyed, as we started toward the exit, my heart and body open in a way I’d never experienced. I was dancing with him. I was wearing red lipstick. And I had no second thoughts about shutting down Bertram Harrison III. I was living the life I’d put on hold for so many years, the life I’d let fear keep me away from.

I challenged myself to push work and other concerns out of my head, even if just for the night, and nodded. “Let’s go.”





Thirty





By the time we pulled into his garage and stepped out of the car, a heady anticipation had coiled low in my belly.

He linked his fingers with mine. “Have I told you how glad I am you’re here?”

“A few times.”

“Only a few? I’ve been remiss. I’m so glad you’re here.”

As we walked, I took in the dove gray walls and framed photos lining the hallway. I paused for a moment to admire one of Jake laughing, splayed out on a green lawn, covered with small children with matching gleeful expressions. “Your nieces and nephews?”

He wrapped his arms around my waist and rested his smooth jaw next to my face. “All eleven. Love those little monsters.” I smiled at the photo again, the energy of his family jumping off the wall in such stark contrast to how I’d grown up.

“Is this your grandpa? The one you’re named after?” I pointed at a photo of a five-or six-year-old Jake grinning with two missing front teeth and standing next to an older white-haired version of adult Jake. Both held fishing rods.

“Yep.”

“You look like him.” I trailed my hand over another photo, this one of a young Jake, maybe fourteen, surrounded by four girls. The five of them had arms slung around one another’s shoulders, wearing matching green T-shirts. I hardly recognized him. In the photo, Jake was the shortest of his siblings and had chubby cheeks. His teeth were covered in braces, but his eyes were the same familiar blue.

Jake swayed against me and pecked a small kiss at my temple. “Family reunion. We’d go camping every year with my mom’s extended family. That was my awkward phase.”

“I think you were cute,” I commented, letting my body rest backward against his.

He snorted. “You think I would have had a shot with you?”

“Depends,” I said, glancing back over my shoulder. “Were your jokes any better back then?”

His body shook with the rumble of his laugh. “Nope.”

“I think twelve-year-old me would have still asked you to play kickball.” I smiled and stroked my hand over his. “You know, your house is different from what I expected.”

“Were you expecting a messy bachelor pad?” He slipped his hands around my stomach, his fingers splayed across my abdomen, the warmth and pressure of his touch through my dress keeping my body at a steady simmer. “Empty pizza boxes? Beer and car posters on the walls?”

I chuckled. “No. It’s just very . . . homey.”

“I’d love to take credit, but my sister did the decorating down here. I’m not sure I would have ever thought to hang family pictures.”