Bet you do. Hoe.
“Cool.” He swings bright, playful eyes my way. “You wanna dance, Sissy?”
“Oh—” Stunned, I spy the rejected woman and her sucked-on-a-lemon expression, then back to Dean. “What?”
“Dance.” He offers Kira a parting smile. “It was so nice to meet you. I intend to compete again next year. I’ll wave to the cameras, so make sure you’re watching.”
“Ah, s-sure,” she stammers.
“Come on.” Dean sets his flute on the table, then steals mine and places it with the first. Snagging my hand as the woman on stage finishes one song and moves into another, he drags me onto the dancefloor and draws me around, careful not to tweak his injured arm, and yet, entirely too comfortable drawing me back in and placing his hand on my hip. “You look really fucking beautiful in red. I knew you would.”
“Ah…” I gingerly set my hands on his shoulders and cast a wary glance around the room. “Brothers and sisters don’t slow dance with their bellies touching, Mr. Warner.” I take a single step back. “This is far more appr?—”
Displeased, he yanks me close again and pins me in place with bruising, rough fingers.
My throat burns dry. My tongue feels too big for my mouth.
Dammit.
“Brothers definitely don’t dance close enough that their sister can feel their… uh…”
“Dick?” Entirely too content in his ruse, he tilts his head to the side. “While not wholly appropriate for a black-tie affair, I can hardly control the way my body reacts to yours. You’re stunning, after all. I’m trying to be a better man, especially considering my brush with death Friday night, but I need you to know you lookamazingin that dress. Your boobs are…”
My boobs are what?
“They make a beautiful dress a million times more gorgeous,” he breathes, pulling me closer. Closer. Way too friggin’ close. “You’ll have to excuse my baser behavior, Counselor. I’ve been focusing on this year’s tournament for quite a while, which left little time for dating. You’re the first woman I’ve stopped to talk to in months, and let’s not forget the Stockholm syndrome thing.”
“You are not suffering from Stockholm syndrome!” I try to take a step back. “Dammit, Dean. Did you know they identified one of the heist trio today?”
“So?” He allows me to escape, but only as far as our arms stretch, then he spins me back, tucking me against his chest and humming when our legs interlace. “I’d rather focus on your gown. I’m not so arrogant as to think you wore red because I told you to. But there’s a flutter in the base of my belly, ya know? A small flower of hope, blooming and spreading its petals. Because maybe…” He inches closer, his hand resting on the small of my back and his lips moving just a hair’s breadth from my ear. “Just maybe…” he whispers, “you did.”
“Dean—”
“I think you’re the most exquisite woman I’ve ever laid eyes on, Anna Maxwell. I know that’s just looks, and looks don’t really mean anything. Beautiful women are all around. But then there’s you.” He snags my hand and presses my palm to his chest. “It feels good when I talk to you. When I argue with you. When I hope and pray you won’t kick me out of your life yet, though we both know you really wanna. It’s Christmas, and Christmas is the season for magic.”
Damn him. Damn his charm. Damn everything he stands for, and the romantic heart he wears so carelessly on his sleeve.
My eyes itch and burn, watering and pooling in the corners. I draw a shuddering breath, my chest growing between us until his knuckles brush the swells holding my dress up. “I don’t celebrate Christmas anymore, Dean.” My voice crackles and aches, rasping and weak. “I haven’t for a long time.”
“But—”
“I don’t believe in magic like you do. I don’t accept that this is a special time of year, or that the whole world must stop, courtrooms close, and businesses cease trading at normal, sensible hours, just so we can spend bunches of money we really can’t afford to spend, and exchange gifts with people we neglect the other eleven months of the year. I don’t think everyone has to conform to a month of eggnog and Home Alone movie marathons. I consider matching pyjamas lame, and that Christmas music should be covered in the Geneva Convention.”
He studies me for a long beat, his milky brown eyes probing. Searching. Staring. Until finally, he shakes his head. “What the hell happened to you, Anna?”
“Whymustsomething have happened?” I swallow the bubbling ache at the base of my throat. The sickly lump.The grief…“Why can’t I just be this way naturally?”
“Because your garage is bursting at the seams,” he rasps, his pulse thundering in his neck. “It’s filled with more Christmas junk than a department store in December. Youusedto believe,” he murmurs. “And it breaks my heart to think something took that away from you.”
TEN
DEAN
Ilay on Anna’s couch around five the next morning, unable to sleep past this hour no matter how hard I try.
When a man is accustomed to waking before the sun and getting his five miles in before breakfast, habits become a crutch and sleep-ins are no longer possible.
Instead, I turn the television on, the volume all the way down so it’s just one click away from mute, and for ten minutes, maybe fifteen, I watch Kevin McCallister set traps for a couple of dumbasses on screen.
