His nose moves close to my ear as his hand is at my back, guiding me. “Mmm, I love it when you talk dirty to me.”
“You’re obnoxious.”
“So you’ve said before.”
“Just reminding you.”
We’re nearly clear of the tables now, and he smooths his hand over my back, ushering me ahead of him. “Don’t need a remin-ooooof!”
JP exhales against my skin, like a gust of very strong wind. There’s a loud crash and then a horrifying thud.
I turn just in time to see JP’s body bounce off the dance floor, his arms clutching his stomach, his long legs stretched out.
“What on earth—”
“Mother... fu—” he starts to say but stops himself. Eyes wincing with an immense amount of pain, he takes a few deep breaths, and just when I think he’s about to unleash a plethora of swear words, the room falls silent. All eyes are on us.
He groans.
Winces in pain once more and then lets out a loud... forceful reaction...
“Golly... goodness,” he groans.
Golly goodness?
Nomotherfucker?
Noholy shit?
Nofuckety fuck fuck?
Just a simple, classic, George Bailey fromIt’s a Wonderful Life“golly goodness.”
I snort.
My hand covers my face and I attempt to hold back the laughter that’s bubbling up inside of me.
If I know one thing about JP Cane, it’s that he’s not thegolly goodnesstype.
He’s the guy that whispers the wordsthrobbing cockin your ear, repeatedly, just for the hell of it.
Unsure of what to do, I consider bending down to ask him what happened, when an old man behind JP stands shakily from his chair. That’s when I see the pushed-out chair in the walkway. Oh no, JP must have been struck solid while walking by. With the tip of his black cane, the old man taps JP on the leg and says, “Watch where you’re going, son.”
With no regard for what he caused, or even a hint of an apology, the ballsy old man hobbles away, muttering something about people getting in his way.
A waiter quickly helps JP to his feet, lifting him under his arms. A few of the men who were just shaking his hand come to ask if he’s all right, but all I can focus on is the way JP is staring at me as if I’m the one who knocked him out with a chair.
“I’m good,” he says, dusting off his suit.
“Are you sure?” one of the waiters asks. “I can get you some ice.”
“Not necessary. I think the only thing bruised here is my pride. Wasn’t expecting a seventy-year-old man to take me out like that.”
Another snort.
Another glare from him.
“I’ll be good.” He shakes off the waiter and closes the space between us once again, takes my hand in his, and leads me to the dance floor.
