"I'm a marketing project manager."
"Oh cool, do you like your job?"
"Most days. I like what I do but sometimes clients make me want to pull my hair out."
He leans in a fraction closer. "Well, I'm glad you haven't gone off the deep end because your hair is gorgeous."
The line is delivered with such blatant confidence that I should roll my eyes, but instead I find myself flushing. Again. Fucking tequila.
"Smooth talker," I accuse.
"Only when inspired," he counters, then glances toward the dance floor. The DJ has transitioned to something with a deeper beat, and the crowd is moving with renewed energy. "So, Charlie from Marketing, what do you say we continue this conversation somewhere with more movement?"
He extends a hand, an invitation. "Dance with me?"
Part of me—the careful, guarded part that's always in control of her surroundings wants to deflect, to make some sarcastic comment. But another part, the part that's currently being fueled by tequila and the genuine interest in those blue eyes, is tired of playing it safe.
"I should warn you," I say, placing my hand in his, "I've been told I'm dangerously good at this."
His smile widens, fingers curling around mine. "Funny coincidence. So am I."
He leads me toward the dance floor, and as I look back I catch Emily's gaze. She gives me an exaggerated thumbs up and mouthing what looks like "FUCK YEAH" with excessive enthusiasm. I shoot her a warning glare, but can't suppress my smile.
The dance floor is crowded but not claustrophobic, bodies moving in the blue-purple haze of lights. He finds us a spot where we have just enough space, then turns to face me as the beat drops. For a second, there's that awkward moment of adjustment that happens when you dance with someone new, figuring out the space between you, the rhythm you'll share.
But then he moves, and any worry evaporates. The man can dance. Not in a showy, look-at-me way, but with a natural rhythm that suggests music translates directly through his body. His shoulders sway with confident ease, hips moving just enough to show he knows exactly what he's doing without being obnoxious about it. He stays close enough that I don't lose him in the crowd but not so close that I feel crowded. The perfect balance of presence without pressure.
I match his energy, letting the music and alcohol carry me. The tequila has settled into a warm, pleasant buzz that makes my limbs feel loose. My dress swishes around my thighs as I move, and I catch him watching the motion with appreciation in his eyes. His gaze isn't leering—just openly appreciative in a way that makes heat climb up my neck.
"You weren't kidding," he says, leaning close so I can hear him over the thumping bass. His breath is warm against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. "Dangerous is right."
I laugh, the sound lost to the beat, but he sees it in my face and grins in response. There's something honest in his smile, something that feels refreshingly genuine amidst the usual dance floor posturing. As the song shifts intosomething slower but still driving, with a deeper bass line that seems to vibrate between us, he moves closer, a question in his eyes. I answer by stepping into the space between us, letting his hands find my waist as mine rest lightly on his shoulders, feeling the solid muscle beneath his shirt.
"So," he asks, his voice dropping low as his hands settle more firmly in place, thumbs just grazing the curve of my hip bones, "do you have a favorite coffee shop around here?"
I nearly laugh at the casual question. Every inch of our bodies are pressed together, my chest against his, our thighs touching as we move to the beat, his hands warm and secure on my hips. I can feel his heartbeat, steady and strong against my chest, his breath on my neck creating goosebumps I hope he can't see in this lighting. The tequila buzzes pleasantly through my system, and the music wraps around us like we're the only two people on the floor, cocooning us in sound and sensation.
And he wants to know about coffee shops.
"There's a little place two blocks from my work," I answer, my fingers absently playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. It's softer than I expected, and I resist the urge to curl my fingers into it more firmly. "They make this ridiculously delicious caramel latte that's basically dessert. Whipped cream, extra caramel drizzle, the works."
His thumbs trace small circles against the fabric of my dress, the movement both soothing and maddening. "Sweet tooth?"
"Only sometimes," I murmur, meeting his eyes. "Depends on my mood. And the company."
The corner of his mouth quirks up, revealing the dimple again. "I'll have to remember that."
My body shifts instinctively closer, drawn to his warmth like a magnet, and his hands slide to the small of my back in response, spanning wide enough that I feel deliciously small against him. The contrast between our closeness andthe casual conversation makes everything feel strangely heightened. Like we’re playing a game where the real meaning hides in the silence between our words.
The look he's giving me right now is nothing short of scorching, all playfulness momentarily suspended as his eyes drop briefly to my lips before returning to meet my gaze. For a moment, I forget about everything except the way it feels to be wanted by someone who looks at me this way—like I'm the only thing worth seeing in a room full of people.
The song changes, and Bash's hands steady me as I wobble slightly on my heels.
"You okay?" He quickly scans my face, one eyebrow raised.
"Fine, just..." My head starts to spin slightly. The combination of tequila, being on the dance floor, and the unsettling nearness of this man who somehow smells like pine and warm spice. "I should probably get some water. Or another drink. Possibly both, in that order."
He nods and releases me, but his hand finds the small of my back again,sending an electric current straight up my spine. "Lead the way."
