“You alright?” Lila shouts over the music, still holding my hands.
“I’m fine,” I shout back, pulling her deeper into the crowd. Away from him. “Just hot.”
She grins. “Yeah, it’s packed tonight.” Packed. Right. That’s why I can’t breathe. Nothing to do with the man who decided this was a great night to show up at the one place his sister promised me he wouldn’t be. “Do you want to take a break?”
“No, let’s dance.”
I’m safe on the dance floor, or so I think.
A few paces away, two men argue over a woman who clearly isn’t interested in either of them. Their voices rise, aggressive and slurred. The shorter guy shoves the other. The crowd around them shifts, giving them space, but Lila and I are too close, boxed in by dancers on all sides.
The first punch comes out of nowhere. One second, the men are chest to chest; the next, they’re grappling, knocking into people, sending drinks flying. The crowd scrambles away, squeezing us tighter in the middle. When the press becomes too hard, someone shoves me from behind. I stumble forward, straight into the path of the bigger guy’s elbow as he drives it back in a wide, wild swing.
I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing for impact. But the hit never comes. Strong arms wrap around my waist and yank me backward.
I collide with a rock-solid chest, the crash knocking the air from my lungs. Not because of its force, but from the shock. From the sudden overwhelming sensation of being held against a lean, male body.
A woodsy scent mixed with cotton and soap fills my nose. Large hands steady my hips, firm and warm through the denim. They let go immediately, but the ghost of his touch lingers, branded into my skin through my jeans.
On instinct, I know it’s him, and that’s why I take an extra heartbeat before turning around.
Ryder Evans stands behind me, close enough that I have to crane my neck backward to meet his gaze. Seeing him up close is a kick to the sternum. My lungs stop cooperating. He’s taking up all the space and most of the air.
“Mr. Evans,” I greet him formally.
His eyes drop to mine, flickering with concern? Amusement? Heat?
He smiles.
It’s the first time I’ve seen this expression on his face, and it’s not fair. The smile transforms him from attractive to lethal. It softens the hard angles, lights up those impossible blue-violet eyes until they practically glow.
“Miss Rose.” He nods, mock serious. “You forgot to say hello earlier.”
Yeah, because I’m a coward.
“I was dancing,” I reply, lifting my chin.
“Yeah, I saw.”
Heat crawls up my neck. Was he watching me the entire time? How long has he been staring?
I clear my throat. “I suppose I have to thank you for saving me from eating a fist sandwich.”
Ryder’s hands shoot out, gripping my elbows to pull me against him. I’m so shocked by the move that I don’t offer resistance. It takes a second to register that he’s saving me from being trampled as, behind me, the bartender marches past, dragging both fighters toward the door by the collars of their shirts while they still struggle.
“Glad I could be of service.” A chuckle rumbles in Ryder’s chest where my palms have landed. The flannel is soft, but underneath it, his pecs are rock solid. His heart beats, steady and strong, beneath my right hand.
I snatch my hands back. Retreat a step. Put distance between us, even if the bar is crowded and there’s nowhere to hide.
“Sorry,” I mutter.
“No need to apologize.” His voice is low, rougher than it was in the classroom. It brushes across my collarbone, my shoulders, and it settles somewhere deep in my belly. “Do you come dancing often?” he asks, and it’s such a normal question, but his tone is playful, flirty.
“No.” I cross my arms. “You?”
“No.” He tilts his head, studying me with those smoldering eyes. “Should we make an occasion of it?”
His hand extends toward me, palm up in invitation.
