“Right.” Cheeks flushed, she steals a look at the crowd. When she turns back to me, she yanks the elastic from my hair so it falls like a curtain around us and tugs me in close. “I think we can be more convincing.”
She grips my shirt at my waist, and in the next second, her tongue grazes against mine.
I nearly lose it. My heart races, and not from the adrenaline of our performance.It’s this kiss. Arms looped around her waist, I pull her flush against me. This kiss makes me forget where I am. It makes me feel alive. When I worry I’ll pass out from lack of oxygen, I regretfully break the connection. But I rest my forehead against hers, our breaths mingling.
Her expression has morphed from wary to intense, like maybe she feels the same mixture of wonder and desire as I do.
The DJ breaks our trance when he calls, “Let’s give it up for Mr. and Mrs. Greer. Wow. Someone get these two a bottle of bubbly and a VIP booth. On the house.”
“Yes,” Millie hisses. “See? I told you we could do it.” She shimmies her shoulders with pride as we’re escorted to a cozy U-shaped booth.
With one arm around her, I tap my champagne flute to hers. “Cheers.”
“What was it they said in Greece?” she asks.
“Yia mas.”
“That’s right. Ugh, and that raki was deadly.” Though she groans, a smile creeps across her face.
“Just about,” I laugh, nudging her knee with mine. “That shit tasted like straight-up rubbing alcohol.”
We listen to the house music and sip champagne, taking a breather. My body temperature has just returned to normal when she knocks back the last of her drink. “Wanna dance again?”
“For the show?”
She shakes her head. “For fun.”
15
Millie
IF THE THEORYthat one can tell a lot about a person’s performance in the bedroom by the way they dance is true, then holy fuck. Can Ezra and I consummate our fake marriage?
Would it be so bad if we fooled around?
Shit.Yes. Ezra has made it clear he’s nothing like his father, so I can’t see him being interested in a summer fling.
But…
Would he make an exception if I were the one to initiate it? Surely he’d appreciate a birthday blowie.
“Are you ready?” he rasps against my ear.
My back is plastered against his front and has been for the past several songs. I’ve been grinding my ass into those tight black jeans like a cat in heat.
If it weren’t for the champagne, I might actually be embarrassed.
But probably not.
For once, I feel like my old self. Silly and carefree.
I turn in his arms. “Let’s go home.” His hands flex against my waist. “I mean—the apartment. Let’sgo?—”
“Let’s go home, Mrs. Greer.” With a chuckle, he guides me off the dance floor.
We’re hit with a warm breeze as we stumble out of the bar, and as we cut through a narrow trail back to the apartment, our hands brush, sending tingles through my extremities. Touching Ezra is like dipping my toes into a hot bath for the first time.
At the top of the stairs, he crouches and unstraps my shoes. “You good?”
