“I pass.”
“You can’t pass!” she fires back instantly, way too triumphant. Her wine glass jingles as she leans back on the couch.
“I don’t dance. It’s not in the contract,” I try.
“Which explains why you’re terrible and I still can’t match you with anyone.” She takes another sip—queen of arrogance—and her cheeks are flushed from the wine. “And you can’t keep hiding behind that stupid contract.”
Crack.
I feel something pinch in my chest.
It’s nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.
Everyone holds back a laugh.
I don’t.
I’m too busy holding myself together.
Why does that line bother me so much?
I’ve been told way worse.
Way worse.
Jesus, I seriously need to get a grip.
I hold her stare.
She holds mine.
The tension sparks between us so loudly I swear I can hear it.
And then the unexpected happens.
Sloane stands up. Wobbles a little.
Walks right toward me.
Pokes a finger into my chest. Her closeness, her touch, her perfume—everything hits me at once. I swear I have an out-of-body experience.
Is she an angel?
No.
More like the angel who convinces you to sin.
“Then watch and learn.”
And that’s when she kills me.
A slow, deep, sensual beat starts playing.
And she…
starts moving her hips.
Slowly.
