“Okay, I get it,” he says. “There’ll be no discussions about what we watch on movie night.”
“Unless Dancing with the Stars or So You Think You Can Dance is on. Those take precedence.”
He shakes his head, smiling. “I can live with that, if you can live with my mode of transportation.”
I crane my neck to peer at the sexy lines of the Harley we’re straddling. “What if it’s snowing?”
“We stay in bed.”
Well, damn. I press my grin against his chest. I’ve been smiling so hard and so long my cheeks hurt. Who knew an unexpected moment with a stranger could be so agreeable. I want to pour this feeling into a fireproof box and keep it under my pillow.
“Give me another one,” he says.
“I have a tendency to break out in dance.” I wriggle on his lap. “Anywhere. Anytime. If there’s an opportunity for spontaneous dancing—in the supermarket, at a bar, on the toilet, you better be prepared.”
“This, I have to see.” His gloved thumb strokes the skin along my spine, making me shiver. “You should know I’m not a good dancer.”
“That’s my job. As long as you have rhythm and you’re not afraid to let loose, we’ll get along just fine.” I tilt up my chin and sink into his warm brown gaze. “I own a crapload of beauty products and clothes. My spare room overflows with dance costumes I can’t part with, stockings of every color and style, beaded bras, double-sided tape, false lashes, dance shoes… You get the idea. Dressing up is my job, so don’t expect me to give up a drawer for your sleepovers, because it ain’t happening.”
His lips bounce between mirth and contemplation. “I don’t wear underwear.”
Oh, sweet Jesus. If I dipped my finger down the back of his jeans, would I slide right into his crack? I might be on the extreme side of outgoing, but I should probably wait for our date before playing with his butt cleavage.
“I don’t share,” he whispers.
“I don’t cheat,” I whisper back. “But there’s no place for jealous cavemen in my line of work. I dance with guys. Wear skimpy clothing around guys. Shake my ass in rooms filled with guys. Can you deal?”
He groans and slides his cheek against mine. “I’ll deal.”
We continue our back-and-forth conversation, and I lose count of how many things we share about ourselves. He admits to being a mercurial hothead, a workaholic, and an opponent of alcoholic beverages that require a corkscrew, while I express my love for stretching, body massages, and all things Beyoncé.
“As far as corkscrews are concerned,” I say, “I love a late-night glass of vino, but I’m all for the screw-cap, economy-jug variety.”
“You’re adorable.”
“So are your dimples.”
He sighs, and the sexy hollows in his cheeks fade away. “I have to go to work.”
I don’t like it, but I knew it was coming. Untangling my legs from his waist, I prepare to brave the cold.
“Ask me to stay.” He touches a knuckle beneath my chin.
So tempting, but I need to process. Alone. I’ve never climbed onto a stranger’s lap and flirted like a crazy person. It calls for analysis of feelings and sanity. Maybe some meditation for good measure.
I lean up and hover my mouth a kiss away from his. “Anticipation,” I whisper, “heightens the pleasure.”
His entire body goes hard against me, but he doesn’t close the gap between our lips. “I hear the same applies to trouble.”
Trouble heightens pleasure? With him, I believe it. “Are you trouble?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then come back tonight.”
I pull away, and his mouth chases mine.
“Tonight.” With a hand on his chest, I stop his advance.
The frigid air creeps in as I slip off the bike and walk backward across my front yard.
“Tonight,” he says, holding my gaze.
It’s almost painful to continue my retreat, but I’m hopeful about seeing him again. Somewhere between a smile and a name, I let myself imagine a future filled with deep brown eyes and seductive dimples.
As I reach for the front door, he calls after me, “Mrs. Hartman.”
Hartman? That must be his last name.
“Yes, Mr. Hartman?” I glance over my shoulder.
“I need a first name to accompany the thoughts that will distract me all day.”
“Danni.” I open the front door and lean against the doorframe. “Yours?”
“Cole.” He buckles the helmet strap beneath his jaw.
“See you tonight, Cole Hartman.”
The motorcycle sputters with a vibrating growl, and he watches me, smiling, until I step inside and shut the door.
I rest my forehead against the wood, replaying every second of my introduction to Cole Hartman.
And I grin.
The moment has come to an end, and I know it’s just the beginning.
I wake from a deep sleep with the sensation of someone watching me. I must’ve overworked myself dancing last night, because it takes a helluva lot of effort to lift my face from the pillow. Or maybe it was all the wine I drank. Body cramps. Pounding head. Cotton mouth. Yeah, I need coffee.
Dragging my eyes open, I groan at the sunlight exploding through my bedroom window. There’s no one in view, but the heavy breathing behind me suggests whoever is in my room isn’t trying to be stealthy about it.
I roll over and come face to face with huge brown eyes.
Standing beside my bed, my niece tucks her chin to her chest and glares at me from beneath thick lashes. After my run-in last night with Trace Savoy and the subsequent bottle of wine, I’m not equipped to deal with a four-year-old demon named Angel.
Worse is the off-tune drone of my sister’s humming in the kitchen. The interrogation awaits.
Maybe I should steal back the house key she stole from me. Or change the locks.
I narrow my eyes at Angel. Long black curls, rosy cheeks, and a dark complexion inherited from her Hispanic father, she’s the prettiest little girl I’ve ever seen. That is, when she’s not speaking.
“It’s creepy to watch people sleep,” I mumble.
She lifts a tiny shoulder, and I swear a mischievous smirk lurks behind those doll-like lips.
“Why don’t you run along and get Aunt Danni a cup of coffee?” I tuck the pillow beneath my throbbing head.
“Jesus hates you.” Angel blinks, expressionless.
“Did he tell you this himself?”
“This is God’s house.”
“Actually, it’s my house, and I work hard for the money that pays for it.”
“It’s God’s money.”
“Do you even know what that means?”
She turns toward the door and bends at the waist. “Toot this.” A farting noise sprays from her mouth, and she races from the room.
Birth control. That’s what this is. If my bighearted, grade-school-teaching sister can give birth to the spawn of the devil, God knows what I would produce. Call me selfish, but I’m not even tempted to find out. I have a ten-year IUD to make sure of it.
Of course, I need to have sex to get pregnant in the first place.
Still wearing the booty shorts from last night, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and follow the aroma of sizzling grease into the kitchen.
“You look like ass.” Bree smiles and shoves a mug of coffee at me.