Sweet Sinful Nights

“I think it’s best if we don’t label what’s happening between us.”

He could live with not labeling. But he couldn’t live with the possibility that someone else might try to date her. He had to lay down one ground rule. “I’m fine with not labeling, as long as the not-label includes not dating other men.”

She arched an eyebrow. “Or other women.”

“Yes. That, too. I don’t want you dating men or women. Good point,” he said, in mock seriousness.

She wagged a finger at him. “You know exactly what I meant.”

As he said goodnight, he couldn’t help but hold tight to those words—what’s happening between us.

Labels or not, something was definitely happening. As he straddled his bike, and tugged on his helmet to ride home, he was determined to make sure nothing stood in the way of him loving this woman again.





CHAPTER THIRTEEN


Not labeling what was happening was pointless.

They were clearly dating again. Shannon couldn’t even try to pretend it was anything but real, honest-to-goodness dating. As if they had just met, and were so taken with each other they had to see each other every day. That kind of dating.

It was scary and amazingly fun at the same time.

On Monday, she visited Edge in the morning with her assistant choreographer, Christine, to make notes on the space, since the layout was similar to the club in San Francisco. James showed them around, but Brent popped out of his office to say hello.

“Hey, Shay. Good to see you,” he said, as he walked to the other end of the club. While she wasn’t worried for her safety per se, or that clients would pull contracts if they learned her real name, she simply preferred the new one in business matters. The fact that Brent moved fluidly between the two warmed her heart. After they reviewed the plans for the show, Christine said she needed to return to the studio to rehearse the dancers, and James had other meetings to attend.

As Shannon walked to the exit, Brent caught up with her. “Can I interest you in lunch?”

“You can definitely interest me in lunch.”

Saying yes was easy. Saying yes felt right.

After they finished pho and chicken dumplings at an upscale Vietnamese restaurant on the Luxe’s property, he told her he had a gift for her.

“You really don’t have to give me anything,” she said as the waiter cleared their plates, even though inside she was delighted. She adored his zest for giving her sweet little things.

“I know, but truth be told, it’s not something I can control. My desire to give you gifts, that is.” He reached into the pocket of his jeans. “I come from a long line of gift-giving men. It’s in my blood and it can’t be bred out of me.”

He handed her a small, champagne-colored drawstring pouch. She’d never had much growing up, and she’d learned to live with that. But perhaps that was why Brent’s generosity had thrilled her so much—it was all so new and fresh and fun.

It still was. With quick, eager fingers, she untied the bag and plucked out a pretty rose-gold bracelet. She gasped. It matched the silver one that she wore every day. It wasn’t too gangly or too busy. Simple and stylish, it was just right for her, and for how she chose to dress these days.

“I noticed you started wearing bracelets,” he said as he stretched his arm across the back of the booth, looking so casual and confident, but also hopeful. He clearly wanted her to like his gift. “You never did before, but you do now, so I picked this out for you.”

“I love it,” she said softly, her gaze on him. “So much.”

His brown eyes seemed to sparkle at her response, and warmth rushed through her from knowing this simple give and take, this little back and forth, seemed to matter. It was only lunch, but it was suddenly more.

She held out her wrist, letting him clasp the jewelry on her. Instantly, the moment shot her back in time to another night when he gave her jewelry. A ring.

The night he’d proposed he’d taken her ice-skating. It was a sport she could still do well enough in spite of her injury. She’d shown off for him, gliding and spinning across the rink while he’d skated…well, the way most men who weren’t hockey players or professional skaters skate. Clumsily.

It hadn’t bothered him, though. He’d laughed at his own clunkiness. He was never one to embarrass easily, if at all. On a long circle around the rink, he stumbled like a cartoon character whose feet spun wildly beneath him, then he fell. It had been an awkward, flat-on-his ass tumble, and she laughed even harder as she glided over to him.

“Pull me up,” he said, still cracking up. She offered her hand, and tugged him. He made it to only one knee. All laughter had stopped and the moment had turned both serious and breathtakingly romantic at the same time when he said, “I meant to do that. And I mean to do this, too. I am so madly in love with you and I want us to be together now, and next year, and always. I want a life with you, and I’ve never been more certain of anything.”