“Yeah, you. We can put our differences aside for one night, can’t we, for the good of the team?” I attempt an innocent, sincere expression. She narrows her gaze and eyes me with suspicion, sensing a trap.
I glance over at Koko, who’s debating the merits of certain types of sticks with a couple of the rookies. He meets my gaze and shrugs, as if he couldn’t care less.
“Let’s go. You can dance, can’t you?” I challenge her, knowing she won’t back down.
“Of course I can dance. Prepare to get your ass handed to you.”
“Like you try to do every day?” I’m intrigued. It’s no surprise to me that she’s got spunk and is a badass in her own right. In another place and time, I might ask her out, but we despise each other as much as much my babusya despised her son-in-law, my dad. My heart squeezes at the thought of my family, but I recover quickly.
“I don’t try. I do hand you your ass.”
I cock a brow at her in a silent protest. Aria raises her chin, not the least bit impressed. She takes the hand I offer. Together we walk to the crowded dance floor. It’s a fast dance, but it ends the second we step out there. I frown when I hear the beginnings of a slow ballad.
Shit.
Aria’s eyes light up with mischief. She relishes my discomfort. Well, fuck that. I take her in my arms and whirl her into the middle of the crowd, ignoring the glares from my buddies as I push past them and step on a few toes. I dip her, spin her, try every move I know in order to avoid pulling her close. Aria keeps up without a problem. She really is a good dancer.
The dance ends, and suddenly we’re both awkward around each other. I don’t know whether to thank her or tell her good riddance. I do neither. Instead, I dig deep and do the gentlemanly thing by offering her my arm. She hesitates before slipping her arm through mine. I lead her back to the table. Koko is nowhere to be seen.
She senses my confusion. “I’m fine. We’re not really on a date.”
I narrow my gaze and study her. “Are you here to dig up dirt?”
“No, I’m off the clock.”
“You’re never off the clock.”
Her Mona Lisa smile tells me all I want to know.
I nod and walk away, but her eyes leave imaginary stab wounds on my back. I resist the urge to turn around for one last look. Why bother? She’s not my type.
What exactly is my type?
When it comes to women, I have eclectic tastes. They’re all my type if they’re available females between twenty and forty. Hell, even fifty. Older women have a lot of experience, and I’m more than happy to avail myself of their expertise when it comes to pleasing a man.
I’ll bet one month’s paycheck that Aria is a dynamo in bed. All that snarky energy and pushy intensity make for an epic evening for two.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
Why am I thinking of my enemy in these terms?
I need to stop and stop now.
Fantasizing about her is courting trouble, and I don’t need her kind of trouble. She’ll use me to take me down, and only a fool allows himself to be put in that situation.
I’m not a fool.
Or am I?
I make a beeline to the bar because I obviously need a stiff drink. A second later I catch a scent of someone behind me and turn. It’s Aria back for round two.
“Why’d you really ask me to dance?” Her eyes bore into mine. I search for a reasonable lie, but my brain has ceased to function.
“Because you looked so miserable.” I blurt out the truth.
“I would think you’d enjoy that.”
“Oh, I do, but I’m not cruel, just vindictive.”
