Page 49 of Serving Bunt

“Dancing.”

Matty stared at my outstretched hand, then up at me. “Peter . . .”

“Come on, Alabama. One dance.” I wiggled my fingers. “Abuelita always says, ‘When you get the saddies, drop it like a baddie.’”

His lips twitched. “Abuelita does not say that.”

“She does so.”

He arched a brow. “In English?”

“It doesn’t sound as good in Spanish!”

Matty let out a soft laugh, shaking his head. For a moment, I thought he might actually turn me down. Then he exhaled, resigned but smiling, and placed his hand in mine.

“One dance,” he muttered.

My grin came instantly. I grabbed him before he could change his mind and tugged him toward the dance floor.

“Peter, wait—”

Not tonight. I was done waiting.

Matty

For the first time in a long time, my cheeks hurt from smiling. Actual, genuine smiling, too. Not the polite kind I had been faking for the past few months.

The air in the room was cool thanks to the A/C unit in the window, but my skin still buzzed from hours of dancing.

Diaz was already kicking off his shoes with dramatic flourish, wobbling slightly as he laughed at himself. Sweat gleamed along the clean curve of his shaved head, catching the light before tracing a slow line down the side of his temple until it disappeared under the open collar of his shirt.

Correction: his slutty shirt.

The top few buttons had surrendered somewhere between the third round of panty droppers and Diaz trying to coax the entire bar into joining his one-man conga line. Which meant I now had a front-row seat to the light smattering of hair on his warm, caramel skin.

Yummy.

“Who knew James Jarrett had hips that don’t lie?” he said, sliding across the floor like he was Tom Cruise.

“Didn’t he play a jock turned dancer on that teen drama in the early 2000s?”

“Sure, but he’s like sixty now.”

I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the door. “He’s in his forties and you know it.”

Diaz barked out a laugh.

We were both a little buzzed. Not drunk, but just loose enough from the tequila and the high of finally letting off some pent-up energy. Hell, it was going on two a.m. and I was nowhere near ready for bed.

Judging by how Diaz was bouncing around the room like Freddie Mercury, neither was he.

“So, is he . . . your type?”

I arched a brow. “I don’t have a type.”

He nodded. “I don’t know. You two looked pretty cozy, yakking it up by the bar together.”

Well, slap my ass and call me Sally.