Running a hand over my face, I let out a slow, long exhale. “Shit.”
“Get your ass out there.” Kane waves a hand and starts heading over to our group of friends in time to hear “Bang Bang” by Ariana Grande, Jessie J, and Nicki Minaj start playing. The girls do their little happy squeal as they dance and sing along. Before I know it, my feet are carrying me over to them. I watch in amusement as Kane starts doing some sort of surprisingly acceptable dancing and actually knows all of the words.
The latter doesn’t surprise me. Of course he would know the lyrics to this song. Of course.
Kane casts out his imaginary fishing line for the classic dance move and tosses it my way. I don’t normally get into this kind of shit, but something makes me want to join in, to be carefree and ridiculous for once. So I go with it. I get “hooked” by Kane and allow him to try and reel me in on his imaginary fishing pole. He, of course, pretends like I’m not a good enough fish and tosses me back out to sea.
Douche.
Before I realize it, Kane and Miller are in their own dance off, trying to out-do one another and creating some crazy ass dances. One of them is a jumping jack that morphs into the Robot, into imaginary log drills from back in our early days of training qualifications. I, on the other hand, happily twirl a laughing Noelle out and back into my arms. I love how her face lights up for me when I add flair to the twirls by bowing slightly at given moments, or giving her a quick wink, seeing the blush spread across her cheeks.
We now have a circle around us, numerous patrons cheering us on as Miller and Kane continue with their crazy dance shenanigans, and I twirl the hell out of Noelle. It’s almost disappointing when Dean, the DJ, comes back from his break, and he announces the next person who’s up to sing.
Noelle. As if that’s not bad enough, I swear the song she’s chosen is a sign—Selena Gomez’s, “Hands To Myself.” She starts singing about how she can’t keep her hands to herself, which is when I make my decision … or have an epiphany. Whichever.
Selena’s got it right. Because I’m done.
I’m done trying to keep my damn hands to myself.
*
“You seemed like you actually had a good time tonight, Kavanaugh,” Noelle remarks as we walk along the sidewalk to where my truck is parked in a small lot nearby. “Like you almost, oh, I don’t know, had fun, maybe?”
She’s teasing me, I know. Before I can reply, her heel catches on something—likely, a crack in the uneven pavement—and she stumbles. Instantly steadying her, my hand goes around her waist. The way she looks up at me is nearly my undoing.
“Thank you.” Her voice comes out sounding a bit breathless and I can’t help but feel thankful for that since I’m feeling pretty off kilter right now.
Okay, that’s a lie. I’ve been feeling off kilter all night—for more than a year, really.
I don’t release my hold, but keep my arm around her waist as we walk the two yards to my truck. When I finally remove my arm from her waist, it borders on painful, instantly noting the absence as I press the key fob to unlock the truck before opening her door.
A gentleman would look away from the way her dress rides up her long, slim legs. But let’s be clear; I’m not one. Because I look, getting my fill before closing her door and getting in on my side.
It’s a quiet ride home with only the muted sound of the radio playing and when I pull into her driveway, I’m warring with myself. Because while I know I’m not right for Noelle, not good enough for her, I want her. It’s selfish as hell, but I want her.
No, that’s not entirely true. I feel as though I almost need her. There’s just something about her that makes that dead, dull part of me actually feel something I haven’t felt in a long, long time.
Alive.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Noelle
Something’s shifted between us tonight—or at least it feels that way. In fact, I could probably tell you exactly how many inches separate us right now in his truck. I’m that aware of him.
But I’m not entirely sure I can do this. If I can take that step and cross the line. Not only is he a confirmed bachelor and a manwhore, but he’s my freaking boss. My employer. The guy who signs off on my paychecks. I’m pretty sure that’s not the least bit legit. But my entire body is giving me the brush off as if to say, Whatevs.
And apparently my body now talks like some perky, flighty cheerleader. See what this man does to me? Ugh.
Once he parks in my driveway, I unbuckle my seatbelt only to realize he’s turned off the ignition, the silence within the truck nearly deafening. Turning, I offer what I’m certain is an overly bright smile.
“Thanks for the ride. And for basically strong-arming me into going tonight. I had fun. Drive safe.” My words come out rapidly as I fumble with my door handle like I haven’t been functioning as an intelligent human who gets in and out of a vehicle on a daily basis.