Zach's hand shoots out, catching my arm. “Don't do anything stupid.”
“Remove your fucking hand.”
He lets go, and I stand, then make my way to the dance floor. There’s a redhead alone toward the edge. I walk over and pull her close. She smiles, then dances, her hands sliding up my chest.
She’s what I need. What makes sense.
Her hips roll into mine with the beat. I match her rhythm, hands on her waist. The bass pounds through the floor, through our bodies. She grinds against me harder, hands curling around the back of my neck.
Then she tilts her head up, eyes half-closed, lips parting as she leans in.
I step back, putting space between us.
Fuck.
Last thing I need are pictures of me kissing some random girl. My parents would weaponize that shit instantly.
“What's wrong?” She reaches for me again.
Before I can answer, a large hand splays across my abdomen, and I'm pulled back into a solid body.
“Sorry.” Henneman's tone is firmer than usual and louder than I’ve ever heard from him. “My husband and I need to talk.”
The redhead steps forward, her hand flying toward my face. “You asshole!”
But Henneman spins me fast enough that she misses. His hand presses against my lower back, holding me against him. “Hands off what’s mine.”
Mine?
Like hell I am.
I belong to no one. Not my father. And certainly not my fake husband.
The second she's gone I turn in his hold and shove against his chest. But he's solid, unmovable. “Get your fucking hands off me.”
“No.”
I try to shove him again, but his grip only tightens. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?”
“Following the rules you set.” He doesn't back down, doesn't look away. “Or did you forget I'm supposed to be yours in public? Because that girl seemed confused.” He gazes over my shoulder. “And Veronica's here. Spotted her while I was on the bar.”
Shit.
If Veronica saw me dancing with another woman, everything could implode. “Where?”
He jerks his chin toward the far corner, near the bathrooms.
“Did you think before getting up on that bar?” I glare at him. “Before having some bitch hanging all over you?”
“I was dancing. Alone.” He leans in. His breath ghosts across my ear, and fuck, heat shoots straight to my dick, making it leak. “Not grinding on some random girl while my husband watches.”
“When do you do shit like that? You're usually such a fucking—.”
“You know nothing about me.” He pulls back, eyes boring into mine. “You don't even fucking try. You want us to appear as a couple, yet we're strangers. Shouldn't take your parents too long to put that together.”
There’s a glaze in his eyes, beer on his breath—he’s drunk. So that's where this backbone is coming from.
But he's not wrong. I know his schedule, some of his fears, where he goes. But not what makes him laugh. Not what makes him climb on bar tops.
