The One That I Want
Scorned Women’s Society Book #3
Piper Sheldon
www.smartypantsromance.com
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2021 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Made in the United States of America
Ebook Edition:
978-1-949202-36-6
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Sneak Peek: Dewey Belong Together by Ann Whynot, Green Valley Library Book #7
Other books by Piper Sheldon
Also by Smartypants Romance
Dedication
To J.R., always
And to my readers, so glad to find you here
Chapter 1
Roxy
Tonight I could be nobody. I had no worries waiting for me. I was just a woman looking to get her dance on. And I was damn happy about that.
The club music pumped all around me, taking over my mind, drowning out the responsibilities that waited for me back in Green Valley, Tennessee. Lights flashed in a pleasing and disorienting way. Bodies all around me moved to the heavy bass and electronic beats; some faced the stage, dancing solo, others paired up, groups of girls clumped together to form that invisible, creep-repellent forcefield any clubbing regular immediately recognizes.
Blissfully in my own world, my arms reached for the sky and I rocked my hips to a sexy blend of hip-hop and Latin that had me flexing newly learned dance moves. Despite how my sweaty face probably looked, I was happy. One dance club in a foreign city, and I could take a full breath for the first time in years. Six years ago, I was given a second chance to change my life. I vowed I would never let down those who saved me.
But maybe just one night off to dance was okay too.
I danced until I forgot about what waited for me back home. The chaos that Diane Donner’s sudden disappearance left, the worry about the promotion I was desperate to earn, or the new manager that was in charge of that decision. I hopped up and down to the music, shaking off the thoughts that threatened to ground me.
An awareness of being watched had me twirl to scan the crowd. Something across the room snagged my attention. Rather, someone. A man stood at the bar, leaning casually despite intense eye contact that zipped through me. Or at least I thought he was looking at me. It was hard to tell among the flashing lights and jumping bodies. A group of girls jostled me and I lost sight of him. I turned in time to the music, trying to spot him again, wondering if I imagined that initial jolt of energy.
There had been something about his look. It wasn’t that scary, stomach-hurting focus that some men triggered. Instead, there was an intense interest to it that felt like more than just a passing glance. It was rare for me to make eye contact with someone and react so physically. His gaze had been piercing but his light coloring surprised me the most. Light hair, light eyes, even across the dark bar I could tell that much. He required more time to study. For science.
Sadly, I would never know because he had disappeared.
It wasn’t long before a deeply satisfying sweat broke out on my brow. I was getting overheated in my favorite leather jacket over a loose tank top and tight jean skirt. When the band took a break, I pushed through the crowd of people toward the bathroom. I missed this in some ways, the electricity of bodies and music and being free. I didn’t really let myself go in Green Valley unless it was from within the safety net of the Scorned Women’s Society, SWS for short. They were my gravity when the world spun out around me.
I didn’t have the same startling beauty that Suzie Samuels had. I didn’t charm easy like Kim Dae. I couldn’t say whatever came to mind like Gretchen LaRoe. I only had the protection of looking completely unapproachable.
I patted my face with a damp paper towel to cool off, careful to not blur my eyeliner. My fingertips shook my bangs back in place. I tilted my head and squinted at my reflection. Gretchen once said she envied my resting bitch face, RBF for short. (A term I resented but, unfortunately, universally acknowledged.) She told me it was my superpower. She was right. I did not exist to make sure people felt comfortable when they looked at me.
My full lips and freakishly long lashes gave me a perpetually pouty face. People always asked me if I was cosmetically altered. It didn’t help that I was naturally thin and covered in tattoos. I always drew looks. Typically, I just gave them one of my winning glares and they scurried away. Smiles came as easy for me as catching a greased-up pig and stayed half as long. My blunt-cut bangs and thick eyeliner completed my badass look.
As I washed my hands, a younger girl—or maybe I was getting ancient at twenty-eight but she looked like a baby—stepped up next to me to wash her own. I felt more than saw her look me up and down. I kept my focus on my reflection.
She was just about to leave the bathroom, when I said, “Hey, you. Stop.”
She froze and turned around. She looked around and back to me, before gripping her clutch tighter. “Uh, yeah?”
I rolled my eyes. Even when happy, apparently I looked meaner than a wet panther. I needed a T-shirt that said “nicer than my face looks.” My RBF was a good thing when I still rode with a scary motorcycle club called the Iron Wraiths, but since leaving, I overanalyzed every interaction I had with “normals.” It helped to think, What would the SWS do? Kim would become her best friend. Suzie would give her makeup tips. Gretchen would probably find out what she needed in five minutes and figure out how to get it for her in another five. Me? I didn’t bring anything to the table, but I could get better.
I pointed to the toilet paper stuck to her shoe. “You’ve got a clinger,” I said dryly.
She followed my gaze and let out a nervous giggle. “Oh. Thanks,” she said and scraped it off.
I turned back to dry my hands as she left, making sure to take my time so I wouldn’t have to make small talk with her. I was making changes but it wasn’t time to start expecting miracles. After I double-checked my eyeliner was in place, I made my way down to the dance floor.
Carillo’s was a hipster gastropub turned nightclub in downtown Denver. It was recommended to me by one of the vendors I had hit it off with earlier at the hospitality convention. I’d spent the last two days representing Donner Lodge, trying to gain new business and potential vendors: corporate suits, fak
e smiles, small talk, blah. I was beyond exhausted but certainly earned a promotion when I got back. The vendor with the most potential was a corporate adventure company called Outside the Box. Before today I’d never even heard of outdoors activities used to bond coworkers, but after a long conversation with the co-owner, William, not only did I understand the popularity but could easily see how they’d fit in at the Lodge. It was actually William who told me to use his name to bypass the line to get into the club tonight.
Now I could let the weight of responsibility melt off me like humidity on a glass of sweet tea. I was going to dance until my thighs shook or my feet gave up.
The walls of Carillo’s were draped with gold pressed-velvet curtains interspersed with a wide range of mixed media art—or random junk from garage sales—it was hard to tell in the dim lighting. Crystal-beaded chandeliers dropped from the ceiling. Couches made of jewel-toned velvet were tucked away in deep alcoves that lined the dance floor and the upper level. Burly bearded bartenders scrambled to keep up with shouted orders.
I went to the bar and chugged a water. I definitely didn’t scan the room for that man that watched me earlier. What I felt was a one-off. I didn’t care about men in bars anymore. Especially not tonight.
Though I had just told myself how content I was to dance alone, I couldn’t help a hint of disappointment. I had cooled off considerably but wasn’t done dancing yet. The band was getting ready to go back onstage for their next set. I took off my jacket and folded it gently and placed it on a barstool. It felt like taking off a protective shield.
I backed up, ready to get back to the dance floor when I smacked into a solid body.
“Watch it,” I mumbled as I was steadied by strong hands on my shoulders. Then I remembered to be nice and tried to scoot to the side.
The arms held me gently in place. When I looked up, glaring pointedly, he dropped them. It was Mr. Eye Contact from across the room. A little thrill tickled the back of my knees. He was damn fine this close up. Not my taste, but definitely a certain appeal. Like, if I wanted to know someone with a yacht to “summer on,” he’d be my type.
His eyes were startlingly blue. His hair was this dark shade of blond, thick waves swept back with lighter tips that looked as though it had been bleached naturally by the sun. A smile quirked his mouth and my focus moved there. He had soft crinkles around the corners of his eyes and a natural tan that spoke of time outside.
He said something with the tilt of his head and a soft smile on his lips. I blinked away, wondering if my mouth had been hanging open catching flies as I took him in.
“What?” I yelled and pointed to my ear. The band had just started back up.
His smile grew to expose that two front teeth protruded just a little. It was a disarmingly charming flaw, like a puppy with just one floppy ear. His gaze moved over the exposed skin of my neck and shoulders under my tank top, seemingly studying the tattoos.
I wasn’t knocking my edgy looks, but I typically didn’t attract men who could have been plucked straight from an Ivy League fraternity mixer. At least the collar of his black button-up wasn’t popped. And he wore nice sneakers and jeans, not boat shoes and pink shorts. Okay, so he wasn’t preppy per se, but squeaky? Like he’d hurt my teeth to take a bite out of. He didn’t even have a beard, for crying out loud. Not to box this guy in, but guys like this did not go for girls like me. Then again, sometimes there were the guys who liked to “slum it” with the easy small-town girls from Green Valley.
Mr. Eye Contact leaned closer. He smelled like a shower after a hard workout. It was like the cleansing smell of a spring morning after working all night at the Dragon Bar. My jaw was clenched tight, thinking about taking a bite out of him again.
“Dance?” he asked. His voice had a rich and deep timbre that sent a tiny shudder down my spine.
His confidence was sexy without being overwhelming. He tucked his hands deep into his pockets and waited patiently as I took him in, studying him head to toe. There was no pressure in his question. I suspected if I said no, he’d walk away without another word. I told myself I wanted to dance alone but suddenly I wasn’t so sure. Wouldn’t it be nice to have hands on me? Wouldn’t it be an escape to just be a woman dancing with a man to good music?
Shocking myself, I realized I was interested. So I felt a zing for this man? It didn’t mean anything. It meant that my warning system wasn’t going off. It meant that I was a person who wanted to dance. It didn’t have to mean anything.
He extended his hand. I bit my lip. I was here to celebrate my hard work. It was one night before an early flight home tomorrow.
“What the hell?” I said unheard in the club.
I slid my hand into his. His hand was not the buttery-soft warmth of an Ivy Leaguer. His hand was calloused and hot. What might it feel like to have those rough palms gripping the tender skin of my hips?
He pulled me only long enough to let me pass, then he let me lead the way to the floor. As I made my way to the other dancers, I felt his gaze on my backside like the vibration of a motorcycle. I risked a glance over my shoulder. His focus returned to mine as he licked his bottom lip.
“Lord, help me,” I mumbled to myself.
Good thing it was just one night and just one dance. This guy would be way too easy to fall for. But what could one dance with a stranger hurt?
Chapter 2
Sanders
When the universe gave me a sign, I listened.
I’d come to Carillo’s to find the team and apologize. I’d planned to tell them how I would make things right. They knew I would. They knew my head hadn’t been right, not since …
No. I wasn’t thinking about that tonight. I was here to start to fix the terrible day I’d caused. The conference, the biggest hospitality convention of the year. The one we’d been preparing for the last three months. The one that could help save our business. And I missed it. I owed Skip a kidney for stepping in last minute.
At least the day had been terrible. Until she danced into my line of sight, a sign that even I was worth saving. Now it was quite possibly about to be the best day of my life. Recently I’d felt like I could do nothing right, but maybe coming here tonight was turning the tide back in my favor. The bouncer Ty had waved me right in as he always did when Skip and I sometimes met the team here.
When I first spotted her about an hour ago, I felt the whole energy of the day finally shift. It was like driving with the emergency brake on and not understanding why I couldn’t move forward. Or what that burning smell was.
She had been dancing alone, as though she didn’t have a care in the world. No, that wasn’t right. She danced as though this moment could put all the cares of the world on hold. She moved with languid confidence. She was fully present. Didn’t care about any of the people around her.
Our eyes had met across the bar for only an instant before she vanished into the crowd. I found her again at the bar, taking off her leather jacket, revealing a beautiful long neck, smooth shoulders, and an array of tattoos, covering her arms and peeking out from under her short skirt and flimsy blouse.
As soon as she reappeared, I couldn’t risk losing her again. There was no thought. My feet carried me until I stood in front of her. It was obvious she didn’t want a dance partner; many men had tried to move up to her but she ignored them. But if I left this bar without at least asking her, it would stick in my brain and I’d regret everything about this day.
Second chances in life were rare. You had to take what you could, when you could. Though it was crazy, watching her dance made me think that she understood that. She was so taken aback when I asked her to dance, I thought for sure she’d say no. And yet here we were. Moving in perfect tandem on the dance floor.
I had no idea what I was doing but I had learned early on that you just had to pretend that you knew and soon you would. Fake it until you make it.
We faced each other and moved without speaking. She was almost as tall as me and I liked that along with he
r broody fashion-model vibe. The flashing lights would occasionally catch her face, highlighting full, beautiful lips and dark eyes shadowed by long lashes. Her long brown hair with fringe emphasized her intense focus that kept flicking over me, like she didn’t know what to think of me. The more I smiled at her, the more her frown grew. She was so open and free with her movements but at the same time her expression remained distant. I wanted to talk to her and learn everything about her.
We faced each other and danced without touching. I fixed that as the music changed to a tango-style tempo. I pulled her closer, my hands on her hips. She wrapped her arms around my neck, occasionally she’d run a hand down my arms, back, and shoulders, like she couldn’t help herself. Fuck if that didn’t make me feel like a king.
The key to dancing with a woman? Spinning them. If they couldn’t get orientated, then they couldn’t tell you actually had no idea what you were doing. As I twirled her away and back, she tossed her head with a laugh before hiding her face in my neck. Her hair smelled fruity and sweet, a surprising contrast to her dark edges. I liked how she ran her fingers through it as she danced, how she threw it around her as she spun. It was as part of her dancing as her hips were.
The One That I Want (Scorned Women Society Book 3) Page 1
