Mick chuckled. "Thanks, and that's fine. Most people don't recognize DJs. But since you did, would you want a selfie?"
Sheer relief exploded across the man's face. "I didn't want to be rude and ask!"
Mick grinned. "Not at all." They got a couple selfies before Mick was shown to his seat, and his usher disappeared back up the aisle as the lights came down.
It opened with a speech from the emcee, an Irish dancer so famous even Mick knew his name. For a while Mick thought that would be the whole show: this one man, so in love with the sound of his own voice that he would just drone on all night. Finally, though, the real competition started with the whole group, showcasing a few of them at a time doing the same steps in fast-paced tandem.
The truth was, Mick knew feck all about Irish dance. That was about as much as anybody had known about it, prior toRiverdance, and he hadn't caught up since then. But it was clear that everybody on the stage had talent, skill, and long hours of exhaustive practice behind them. Watching people be good at stuff was one of Mick's favorite pastimes, and this was no exception. His gorilla also watched intently, fascinated by the speed at which the dancers' feet flew.
Once the first number ended, the dancers broke up into smaller groups, into individual dances, into freestyle competitions that Mick hadn't even known could exist in Irish dance, and then back together for another big showcase piece. He burst into applause at the end of each dance, genuinely enthralled by the talent on display, but he also truly didn't think he was biased when he saw his mate as among the best dancers on the stage.
Her name, according to the program, was Irina Zarabaka. She was American, from a town he'd never heard of, and had been dancing since she was old enough to put on shoes. She was slim and athletic, and although her hair was the same dark brown it had been earlier, she now sported a head full of bouncing curls that hadn't been present at the wildlife park. Like everybody, she wore a square-shouldered short dress with avery full skirt. Hers was red, white and blue, with spangled stars sparkling on the skirt.
All the competitors were dressed similarly, which was to say, everybody seemed to be wearing the colors of their nations' flags. That was most of what reminded Mick itwasa competition: otherwise they seemed to just be living for the performance, not trying to win anything. He was startled when the emcee came out again, surrounded by judges this time. They began calling out scores, and he waited with anticipation for his mate's ranking, sure it would be among the top few.
To his surprise, the scores got lower and lower before Irina Zarabaka's name was called. The competitors had to stay on stage for all of it, their smiles turning to glass. Mick was certain he saw tears in Irina's eyes, though she kept a brave face and nodded when her name was finally called.
Indignation rose in his gorilla.Our mate deserved better than those numbers.
I think she did, too,Mick answered in bewilderment.But maybe there's something I just don't understand about the scoring. Maybe she missed some things I can't see?
His gorilla huffed dismissively. Mick couldn't help agreeing with it. Hedidn'tknow anything about Irish dance, but he did know Irina had been fantastic. And even if he'd doubted it, there were murmurs of surprise and confusion not just among the audience, but even a few of the other competitors on the stage looked between one another like they hadn't expected that. Someone—another American, judging by the costume—gave Irina a hug, which obviously surprised her.
Then everyone was being shuffled off stage by the emcee, who looked as if he thought they should feel honored to be herded by him. Mick rose with the rest of the audience, waited politely to leave his row, and made his way through the crowd easily. He knew where the opera house stage door was, and wentto hang around in its general vicinity, not wanting to lurkrightthere, but also hoping to see, and meet, his fated mate.
A lot of the other dancers left before she did, clinging to each other and giggling as they congratulated each other, or walking by themselves, heads down, shoulders hunched against disappointment. Mick waited, hoping he hadn't missed her, and finally caught a glimpse of her slipping out behind a larger group of dancers.
Her hair is small again,his gorilla said in astonishment.
Mick chuckled.The curls were probably a wig.He took a brief moment to explain wigs to the gorilla, who then had to sit with the astonishing idea of addingmore hairto its own considerable amounts, while Mick prepared himself to meet his mate.
He was suddenly nervous. She was so tiny and perfect, her face oval with a firm jaw, and stage makeup that left her already-large eyes absolutely huge, especially framed with high-quality false eyelashes. Her mouth was stained pink from lipstick, and her cheekbones glowed with both the effort of the evening and blush. She wore a black lace dress with a gold underdress almost the same tone as her skin, and an uneven hem not much longer than an Irish dancing costume. Unlike the costume, though, it was sleeveless and halter-necked, showing off slim muscular arms. Mick was sure it was a party dress, that she'd chosen it because she expected to be celebrating after tonight's competition, but instead she wore it like she was embarrassed by having been so bold.
He wanted to tell her she'd been flawless. That she now looked flawless, like she'd stepped off a red carpet. That he would fight anybody who made her look and feel as sad as she currently was. That he would hug her and keep her safe from the world. That he would do anything she asked him to. Anything at all.
Instead, awkwardly, he called out, "You were robbed," and watched his mate nearly startled out of her pretty, pale skin.
CHAPTER 3
"You were robbed,"a man at her shoulder said. Irina sniffled, trying not to jump with surprise, and fixed a polite smile on her face as she glanced his way.
"Thanks, I…oh, gosh."
He was huge. Not just tall, although hewastall. But also thickly built, like a power lifter. He wore a crew-neck sweater that absolutelyclungto those biceps. He looked like he could lift Irina in one hand, or do one of those superhero throws with her, where a big guy threw a little guy. She'd fly halfway across Cork City before she landed. His biceps were bigger than her head. Bigger than her thighs.
Her gaze dropped tohisthighs.
They werefantastic. Thick. Bulging. Powerful. Delicious. Even in the lightweight slacks he wore, they were obviouslyincredible.
Irina actually wet her lips and swallowed. It took almost physical effort to drag her attention back up to his face. He had that roundish but square-jawed face shape that a lot of power lifters seemed to, and his expression was serious, intent, hopeful. Short hair, brown eyes. For a man as absolutely huge ashe was, he had an incredibly quiet presence, like he was in the habit of trying to make himself seem small and unalarming.
To be fair,alarmedwas not at all the word that leaped to Irina's mind when she looked at him. It was more of a vibe that leaped to mind. A vibe that saidclimb this guy like the mountain he is.She said, "Oh, gosh," out loud again, and the huge guy gave her a remarkably shy smile.
"Hi. I'm Mick." His voice nearly vibrated her bones, it was so deep.
"Mick. Mick, hi. I'm Irina. Sorry, I—" Irina gave herself an actual physical shake, trying to stop herself from thinking phrases likeclimb like a mountainandlick like a lollipopandride like a—"Nope!"
"Nope?" Mick's brown eyes widened and he shot an uncertain glance toward the opera house. "I admit I don't know a lot about dance, but I'm fair sure youwererobbed…"
