Probably.
“Most people don’t understand why I’d complain about dating the model who was on the cover of Sports Illustrated, or a popular actress without a single flaw. Sometimes I wonder about it myself.”
“It’s not always about looks. Granted, physical attraction is what gets you in the door. But there has to be something beyond that to want to keep you there.”
He cocked his head to the side. “You understand.”
“Of course. I like a good-looking man as much as any woman does. But there has to be some substance beyond just his great looks. Something that keeps me coming back for more. Otherwise you’re left feeling empty.”
“I don’t have these kinds of conversations with the women I meet.”
“Have you tried?”
“You mean do I try to talk to them beyond just having sex with them?”
“Yes.”
“Yeah, I do. We don’t get very far. They’re more interested in talking about themselves and their careers. It isn’t too long before I’m bored and out the door.”
She smiled at him. “Maybe you’re just not meeting the right woman.”
“Probably because I’ve never looked for her.” He stood, held out his hand. “Let’s go dance.”
A rush of panic hit her. “Oh, I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Again, because I’m working.”
“Bullshit.” He tugged her along, and she went helplessly as he opened the door and led her back into the ballroom, through the crowds, and onto the dance floor. He pulled her against him, slid his arm around her back, and drew her close.
How timely. A slow song. The lights had dimmed, and couples were pressed intimately against each other. She cringed, certain she was the center of attention, but when she took a quick glance around, no one seemed to be looking at them. Maybe it wasn’t unusual for Mick to grab random women and dance with them. She prayed the media was off interviewing someone else or taking pictures of Katrina Strauss, the latest Hollywood It Girl. Maybe she was safe from the cameras at least.
But Tara was certain any moment someone from management was going to drag her off the dance floor and fire her. She tried to search the ballroom for Mr. Stokes or his assistant or anyone else on his staff, but the dance floor was too crowded.
“Hey, would you relax?”
She snapped her gaze to Mick. “What? Oh, sorry. I’m feeling kind of guilty.”
“For dancing?”
“You’re here to celebrate. I’m here to work.”
He slid his hand up her back and she wished she hadn’t worn such a revealing dress. The feel of his warm hand against the bare skin of her back made thinking clearly a near impossibility.
“You are working. You’re keeping the guests happy.”
“Ha. I’m keeping one guest happy.”
“The rest of the guests don’t seem miserable. Relax.” He pulled her close and swayed with her around the dance floor. He had decent rhythm for someone so big. She expected a football player to be clumsier, but he glided around like he knew what he was doing.
“You dance really well.”
“I took ballet lessons.”
She tilted her head back to search his face, certain he was joking. “You did not.”
“I did. Several of us on the team did. Good for coordination.”
Resisting the laugh that bubbled up in her throat, she said, “Somehow I can’t picture you in tights and a tutu.”
But he did laugh. “We made sure no one with a camera got within miles of the studio.”
The more time she spent with him, the more she liked him. Dammit. Why couldn’t he be an arrogant son of a bitch, full of himself and talking of nothing but his career and his stats? It would be so much easier to walk away from him if he was self-absorbed. But not only was he gorgeous, he was also funny and was interested in her and her career, and she liked spending time with him.
And how long had it been since she’d danced with a guy? She couldn’t recall. That meant it had been too long. It felt good to feel his warm hand at her back, to clasp her other hand in his, to feel the pressure of his thighs against hers as he expertly managed the steps and moved her around the dance floor. He smelled good, like pine trees and outdoors. She leaned in a little and inhaled, amazed at the sheer size of him.
And when he dipped her at the end of the dance, her lips parted and she let out a small gasp. “Bet you didn’t learn that in ballet class.”
He brought her upright, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Don’t tell anyone, but my mom is a dance teacher. I might have learned a few things watching her classes.”
“Your mother is a dance teacher? Like ballroom dancing for adults?”
He slipped her hand in the crook of his arm and led her to his table, then pulled out a chair for her, and she sat. “No, the teach-all-the-little-kids-how-todance kind of teacher.”