When she turned around, she slung her arm around his neck and pressed her body against his, rocking her hips against him.
She had to notice he was getting hard. But she drew closer and ground against him.
To torture him, no doubt to get back at him for showing up at the bar and hitting on her all the time. But her gaze met his, her clear blue eyes not filled with anger, only interest.
And when the music slowed to something sexy, she didn’t push off and walk away, so he took her hand in his, slid his arm around her back, and drew her in close.
He should probably say something to her, but he didn’t want to break the spell. If he spoke, she might actually remember who she was dancing with, so he stayed quiet, content to breathe in the vanilla scent that seemed to always be part of her. He stroked his hand along the top of her back. Her skin was soft.
She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “You’re quiet.”
“I was afraid if I said anything you’d leave.”
She arched a brow. “Why would I do that?”
“You don’t like me.”
Her lips curved into a smile. “I never said I didn’t like you.”
He arched a brow.
“Okay, I might have given you that impression. But the music’s nice, and you feel good.”
“You feel pretty good, too. Mind if we stay on the dance floor all night?”
She giggled and laid her head on his chest. “All right by me, but these shoes have to go. My feet are killing me.”
He stopped. “Take them off.”
She nodded. “Good idea.” She slipped her shoes off one by one, and handed them to him. He held them by their straps, deciding any woman who’d wear heels this high had to have some kind of death wish.
“How do women walk in these things?”
“It’s in our genetics. It’s why women are the master species. We give birth and we can walk in heels.”
He laughed. “No wonder your feet hurt.” She slid into his arms again and they continued to dance. The deejay was nice enough to play another slow song. He’d have to remember to tip the guy.
“The wedding was nice.”
She grinned. “It was. My brother and Tara are happy. They went through hell to get here, so they deserve it.”
He didn’t much believe in the whole happily-ever-after thing, but for some people, he supposed, it worked. He really hoped it worked forever for Mick and Tara, especially since there was a kid already involved. Tyler knew better than anyone what could happen to a teenager when what you thought was a happy family dissolved in front of you. “Yeah, I hope it lasts for them.”
“It will. They’ve already been through all the rough stuff. The rest of forever will be easy.”
He kept his thoughts to himself. No sense in bursting her bubble. She probably believed in knights in shining armor, rescued princesses, and fairy tale endings.
And love being enough to solve any problem.
All a bunch of bullshit. He didn’t buy into any of it. Right now was what counted, and grabbing whatever you could while you had it. Because nothing lasted.
Including the song, and holding Jenna in his arms. The deejay cranked it up to something fast after that.
“Thanks for the dance,” Jenna said. “I’m ready for a drink.”
“Me, too.”
Instead of walking away, she took his hand. “I know a shortcut to the bar.”
She didn’t ask for her shoes, so he held on to them and let her lead him to the bar. He found them two seats and ordered two drinks. He wanted soda, while Jenna ordered another glass of champagne.
She crossed her legs and the slit along the side of her dress parted, revealing an amazing length of slender thigh. Used to seeing her in blue jeans and T-shirts, Tyler looked his fill, then leaned against the bar to take a drink.
“No champagne for you?” she asked.
“Not my kind of drink.”
She smirked.
“What?”
“Nothing. I just remembered something I said to the girls one night about guys and their choices of drinks.”
“Yeah? What’s that?”
She shook her head. “Can’t tell you. Bartender trade secret.”
He could imagine. “I’ll bet you can tell all about a guy from what he drinks.”
She frowned and laid her glass on the bar. “You think so?”
“Bartenders have keen insight. So what would you say about me?”
“You like whiskey, neat. Though sometimes you’ll drink beer. That means you’re independent, not easy to pin down. You like your freedom, but you’re not pretentious. No expensive champagne for you. You don’t like to show off, but you are choosy—no, wait. That’s not the right word. Particular. That’s better. You’re particular. You aren’t going to pick up just any girl. She has to be the right girl.”
“You know all that just from the drinks I order?”
She took a sip of champagne. “Yes. And you also don’t pick up women in my bar.”
“Maybe because I’m waiting for you.”