One Bossy Offer (26)

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You still have the figure. If I had to write your biography, I would have guessed,” he says, his eyes flitting over me, dipping over my neckline.

I definitely don’t. I’m twenty to thirty pounds heavier than I ever was in high school, but the unexpected flattery makes this more tolerable.

“Yeah? And what does a cheerleader look like?”

“You.” He smiles then.

A real human smile that makes me think he’ll light up and sparkle like the good vampires you read about.

He doesn’t, of course, but he makes me smile back like I’m a little broken.

“You’re going in circles,” I say.

“Really more of a square.”

The dancing, he means.

I laugh.

He takes another one of those wide, too graceful steps that I’ve learned to keep up with. Only, this time I misstep and land on his toes.

I only notice because I almost fall as my foot slides off his shoe.

“Oops. Sorry.”

“No need to apologize. Just get ready to spin,” he says, listening intently to the music’s crescendo.

“What? I don’t know if I can—”

“Trust me.” He laces my fingers tighter to his.

Then with shocking dexterity, he uses the hand on my hip to guide me away from him.

I’m like a toy in his hands as he wheels me out, snapping me back toward him a second later.

It’s amazingly fluid—flawless, even, if only I didn’t mash his toes again.

“Was that so hard, Miss Landers? I think you’ll find dancing with a man easier than a drunken boy.”

“But I landed on your feet again,” I groan.

And I step on his toes again as I’m saying it.

“Easy fix.” He lifts me and places my feet over his, holding me so close I feel every breath, every pulse, every sweet degree of body heat.

I start to relax into him too easily.

“This can’t be comfortable for long,” I whisper.

I wish I believed it.

“You’d be surprised. Are you and the handyman really a thing yet or what?”

Oh, crap. So much for relaxing.

Are we?

“No. I don’t think so.”

“You had to think about it,” he points out.

I wrinkle my nose. “Why do you care? It’s like you’re worried I’ll sell him the inn instead.”

He doesn’t answer and the music thrums on.

“Well?”

He’s quiet for a minute, those eyes wide with mystery before he finally says, “If you and the handyman hook up, you may have a real reason for staying here.”

“And not sell you my property,” I finish for him.

It clicks in my brain.

I should have known.

This lame dance was calculated from the very beginning. I wouldn’t be surprised if he even feigned the jealousy act with Ace.

It’s all about the land.

His stupid need to expand his little kingdom and wall himself off from the world, and honestly, maybe that wouldn’t be so bad for everybody else.

It might save other clueless girls from thinking this devil of a man would ever be genuinely attracted to them.

“I get it now,” I mutter coldly.

Cromwell doesn’t answer.

“Okay, I think I’m out,” I say, pushing back until he lets go. “I hurt my ankle. I should go sit.”

“Your ankle? That’s not possible. You’re not moving like you’re hurt.”

The worst part is, his face gentles, and he looks at me with real concern.

“It just hit me now. I think it happened earlier on my way in, actually. I just didn’t notice.”

He walks closer, eclipsing me again.

“I’ll help you find a seat.”

I shake my head firmly. “No, thanks. I’m good.”

With a messy spin, I flee across the room, not bothering to fake a hobble.

I sit down next to Sarah and some local man with a fishing cap. She’s laughing at some dumb joke he tells her.

Cromwell stands in the middle of the dance floor, almost dumbstruck, staring like I’m the first woman who’s ever had the gall to leave him stranded alone on a dance floor.

I find that so very hard to believe.

A minute later, he stalks past me without saying anything and retreats to his corner table. I chat with Sarah about the town and her past projects before I get up and go around the busy bar, taking pictures of antique fishing gear and photos from Ireland.

A server brings a divine-looking appetizer piled with mozzarella sticks and wings to a couple sitting at a table across from Cromwell. It’s too perfect to ignore.

“Hi, do you mind if I get a quick shot of your food before you dig in? It’s for my tourism video,” I say.

“Go for it!” the woman says with a grin.

I’m well aware I have eyes on me the whole time.

Don’t look at him.

Don’t do it.

Focus.

I take a few shots and several five-second video clips and then start back toward my table at the front of the room.

But before I get there, Cromwell steps in front of me.

“Your ankle looks mended,” he says sharply.