If possible, Ezra’seyes darkened even further and an angry cloud took up residence over his head.He was always too handsome to look directly at, but like this, with hiseyebrows scrunched together over his nose and his jaw hard and firm and soangular, he looked like a god, like a marble statue that had been expertlycarved. I had the strongest urge to run my fingers over his nose, to memorizethe exact curve of his jaw and trail my finger through the wrinkles next to hiseyes so that next time I painted him I would get every single detail right.
“You need Wyatt?”Ezra asked.
“To dance.”
“To dance?”
I nibbled thecorner of my lip and tried to collect my thoughts. “He’s busy so he can’t dancewith me.”
Something changedin Ezra. His demeanor shifted, moved, and then settled. It was hard to explainhow I noticed it because it wasn’t something physical. If I was painting himright now, it wouldn’t have been something I could have marked with physicalfeatures. And yet it was there, in his aura, in his being. I would have had tothrow away the painting altogether and start over from scratch, trying tocapture the essence of this mysterious man.
“I’ll dance withyou,” he said.
He couldn’t havesurprised me more if he would have told me he was about to fly to the moon.“You don’t have to—”
His hand coveredmine that still happened to be on his chest. “Come on,” he said, cutting meoff. Then he stalked off toward the dance floor, tugging me after him.
I just managed to setmy champagne on a table we passed before I was swept up on the dance floor withhim and all of the other guests. I caught Vera’s dad’s eye as he sat at a tablewith a few other people his age. He waved at me and smiled. I think I managedto look panicked in return.
Ezra‘s free handsettled on my waist and he stepped into me so that our chests brushed. I feltthe press of his muscular thighs against my bare legs thanks to my mini dress.He towered over me, making me feel small, delicate… feminine.
One of the cornersof his mouth lifted in a confident smile and I realized there was no runningaway without making a ridiculous scene. I was trapped.
I was stuck dancingwith one of the world’s crankiest, hottest, most difficult men.
Chapter Seven
Surreal.
That’s how I felt.Wrapped in Ezra’s strong arms—the softness of his clothing a distinct contrastto the muscles beneath—was absolutely surreal.
All around us themusic pulsed and the atmosphere bewitched, friends laughed and dishes clinked,and I stood there frozen with confusion. I blamed the champagne.
Henceforth, I wouldavoid expensive, delicious, hypnotizing drinks and stick to the cheap grocerystore bargains I was used to.
Goodbye, DomPerignon.
Hello, Martini andRossi, my old friend.
Because obviouslythe better brands got me into trouble!
To be honest, I couldhold my own on the dance floor. I’d even been on enough blind dates to navigateany enthusiastic fondle with ease. But this was an entirely new level ofstressful firsts.
I stood, stiff as aboard, in Ezra’s arms. And he wasn’t any better. We swayed back and forth likethirteen-year-old strangers forced together by well-meaning teachers at amiddle school dance. I half expected my seventh grade science teacher to layher hand on my shoulder while she measured the distance between Ezra and mewith a ruler.
Except there wasalso this air of adult awareness that made things bizarrely and sexuallyintriguing. Ezra’s thighs brushing mine. His hand pressed against my lowerback. The occasional resting of his jaw against the top of my head. I feltevery single inch of him and not one part felt lacking or less than. Ezra wascompletely, wholly, utterly man. He made every other past dance partner andblind date feel like the junior high cesspool I’d ridiculously compared us to.
He wasn’t athirteen-year-old boy enslaved to hormones and braces. Ezra Baptiste wassmooth, successful and so freaking sexy I felt jittery with anticipation. Hedidn’t jolt me back and forth or step on my toes. He moved me around the dance floorwith grace and skill, wowing me, charming me… seducing me.
Even if hisseduction was accidental.
He cleared histhroat and I fixated on the long, slender column of his neck. I was constantly,and possibly weirdly obsessively, trying to figure out how to paint his face.Trying to figure out how to get his expressions just right and bring out thatsomething invisible I couldn’t explain. And yet he had so many other parts andpieces I hadn’t even begun to dissect yet.
Like his throat. Orthe width of his shoulders and the alluring way his clothes hung off them. Iglanced at our entwined hands and tried to memorize the way mine looked sodelicate and small compared to his. I wanted to draw the way his tie cinchedaround his collar or laid against his solid chest. I wanted to measure thewidth of his shoulders so I could recreate them on paper, canvas or a bathroomstall.
I felt likethrowing back my head and screaming at the top of my lungs,Fine, I’m attracted to him! Are you happynow?
It was yet to bedetermined exactly who I would be yelling at. The universe? God? Cupid? Itdidn’t matter. Whoever they were, they were to blame for this inconvenientattraction to one of the world’s tersest men.
