by Poppy Parkes
I watch, too. But I can’t take my usual enjoyment from the lively scene. Which makes sense, for obvious reasons.
The last time I was here, it was on Randall’s arm. And while he wasn’t exactly the most enthusiastic dancer, he’d allow me to turn him around the floor a few times after he’d gotten a few beers in him.
Which maybe was a sign that he wasn’t as into me as I’d thought — that our foundation wasn’t all that solid if he could hardly bear to dance with his future wife.
I want a man that I don’t have to beg to put his hands on me, a man to take me in his arms and move our bodies as one to a single rhythm.
I thought Randall had been that man.
But clearly, I was dead wrong.
The wispy hairs at the nape of my neck that earlier today had refused to stay swept into my chignon stand to attention. I stiffen, goose pimples running over my shoulders and down my spine.
Emmy’s eyes are on me in an instant, full of concern. “Are you okay?”
I nod. “Yes, just felt a chill for a sec.”
She offers a sweet half smile that’s full of sympathy and turns back to watch the dancers, who have now moved onto a lively line dance.
But I didn’t feel a chill.
I felt — and feel — watched.
Someone’s eyes are on me.
When I turn my head to scan the room behind me, I try to sweep my gaze as if I’m looking for someone specific, someone that I know. I don’t want whoever’s watching me to know that I’m onto them.
But it’s no use. Because when I twist my neck, my eyes lock at once onto the ones trained on me.
Warmth rushes into my nether regions as I meet cocoa-colored eyes that belong to a man with a chiseled chin, close cropped hair as dark as the eyes I’m falling into, and a crooked but sweet smile that feels like it’s made just for me.
I’d meant to be subtle, to keep my wits about me. But I’m flat out staring at this man, mouth dangling open. I take in his wide shoulders and the way I want to run my hands over the muscles his plaid shirt surely hides. The fact that two blondes are hanging on the every word of both this man and the guy that he’s with makes jealousy spike hot and sour in my gut.
And just as quickly as the heat flooded my pussy, it flashes across my cheeks. I’m sure my face is crimson in embarrassment.
Because what the fuck? I can’t remember being this turned on by Randall at any point in our relationship — or hell, by any of the guys I’ve dated — and here I am gushing between my legs from a simple shared glance with a stranger.
The man inclines his strong chin at me, as if to say hello. I reply by blushing even deeper and giggling to myself.
The man can’t hear it, but my friends certainly can. Hattie turns to me, frowning, scanning my crayon-red face with suspicious eyes.
Emmy asks me, “What’s that? I couldn’t hear you over the band.”
Has a sinkhole happened to have opened up in here? Because if so, I’d like to jump into it. I can feel the man’s gaze still lingering, but I jut out my jaw and will myself to keep my eyes on my friends.
“Uh, I just said how much I like this song,” I mutter. It’s not really a lie, because the band is currently slaying a cover of “Sex Bomb” by Tom Jones.
“It’s a good one,” Emmy chirps. She bounces up and down on the balls of her feet, turning her hips so that her dress flares out above her knees. She catches the attention of more than a couple of guys in our vicinity. It’s always been like that with her — somehow her sweetness is perpetually on full blast, garnering her attention from all sorts. Her difficulty has been in attracting someone who’s actually good for her.
I think of Randall. Maybe she’s not the only one dealing with this problem.
I flick my gaze back at the dark-haired man. He’s turned back to the conversation his friend is having with the two blondes. He must feel my eyes on him, though, because I’ve not even taken a full breath when he glances back at me and smiles.
I decide right then and there. Before I leave Desperado’s, I need to meet this man.
Tatum
I hope to god that I’m not drooling at the redheaded woman who keeps casting glances my way. There’s a damned good chance that I am, though, mouth dangling wide like an idiot.
“Whatcha looking at?” one of the blondes chirps.
Her friend follows her gaze and, seeing where I’m looking, scowls. “I guess he’s just not that into us, sweetie,” she tells her partner in crime.
Wyatt’s also looking now, eyes glowing with curiosity. “She’s cute. You going to talk to her?”
The first blonde pouts. “But you’re talking to us.”
I ignore her and lift my brows in surprise at my buddy.
“What?” He shrugs. “It’s not everyday that a woman catches your eye, Mr. Particular.”
I ignore the jibe. “I’m here with you. That’s what you wanted, right?”
Wyatt nods. “Yeah, you’re my wingman. But as you can see, I’m quite enthralled by these fine ladies.” He winks at the two blondes. The first one’s pout deepens, but the other flushes and ducks her head, hiding a smile. “I think I’m good here.”
I cock my head at my friend, doubtful. “You sure?”
“I’m not.” The first blonde plucks at my sleeve. I shake her off.
“You bet.” Wyatt gives me a playful shove on the shoulder. “Get out of here. I know you’ve been itching to dance anyway.”
“You’re not wrong,” I say, brows lifting in surprise. I thought that my friend had been fully focused on the blondes. “But how’d you know?”
He snorts. “Dude, you can’t sit still. You’ve been antsy all night. And I know you. So go on and enjoy yourself.”
The woman pulls at my sleeve again with two inch long red painted nails. “I don’t know if he can enjoy himself without us,” she whines.
I pull away from her touch. Drawing a deep breath, I try to combine the kindest smile I can muster with a no nonsense tone of voice. “Sorry, darling, you’re lovely, but you’re not my type.”
She sighs. “What is your type?”
“You know, I’m not quite sure,” I answer honestly. “But I suspect that I’m the kind of guy who likes one in a million.” My eyes travel back to find those copper tresses. The redhead is turned away, encircled by her friends. But as if she can sense my gaze, she turns and looks into my eyes. I can’t help the smile that curls like smoke over my lips. My chest warms when the redhead gifts me a shy smile of her own.
“I’m beginning to get a pretty good idea of your type.” Wyatt chuckles. “You going to ask her to dance or what?”
I clap my buddy on the shoulder. “I think I just might, since you’re in such excellent company.” I nod at the two blondes. The pouting one releases a maudlin exhalation while her friend curls an arm into the crook of Wyatt’s elbow. “Don’t worry, ladies, you won’t miss me. Wyatt here is twice the man I am, if you know what I mean. He has a reputation for cultivating a satisfying relationship with every woman he meets, no matter the circumstance.”
Wyatt’s eyes bug out in surprise at my words, and I swallow my laughter. I honestly can’t say what Wyatt’s performance in the bedroom is like. But I’m his wingman, and the extra accolades are the least I can give before I leave him in the care of his two blondes — both of which have perked up significantly at my words.
I wink at him, and now he’s stifling his own grin, catching onto to what I’m trying to do. Both women have their hands on him, so I figure my work here is done. “Farewell, and have the most pleasant of evenings,” I say, bending into a slight bow. The blondes aren’t listening to me anymore. All their attention is fixed on Wyatt, who’s waving me away.
I take the not-so-subtle hint and turn on my heel, leaving the three of them to whatever escapades await. However the night ends up for them, I hope it’s fun. Wyatt could use more than a bit of that, and I have no doubt that he’ll have twice the fun with twice the women fawning
over him.
Participating in a threesome probably ranks high in many guys’ sexual fantasies. Not me, though. I think that making love to that one right woman has got to be so much more delicious than sharing an orgy with a room full of women that aren’t the one.
I find the redhead. She’s still with her friends, but now she’s on the edge of their group, a drink in her hand. They’re all turned toward the dance floor, watching. Her ample hips dip and lift with beat of the band’s bass drum, her dress floating airily about her. I feel a sudden urge to see what’s under that blue-green fabric. I want to tuck my hand between her legs and dip into her, making her wet.
Dragging a palm over my bristly hair, I take a steadying breath. Down boy, I tell myself. I haven’t even met the woman. No sense in getting ahead of myself.
I think of my parents and how they met. I wonder if my dad felt like this when he saw my mom — enraptured and also as horny as hell. For the first time I consider that the real world love at first sight story that I grew up hearing might have been the PG version.
Because I don’t just want to whirl this woman around the dance floor. I want to take her into my bed and run my hands over every centimeter of her skin. I want to make the sweetest love to her that she’s ever had, and feel her clench around me in ecstasy.
I don’t know if I’m going to find love at first sight, with her or with anyone. But I’m sure as hell experiencing lust at first sight right now.
Somehow this woman already feels so familiar to me, even though we’ve only shared a few glances. It doesn’t feel like it’d be wrong to go and wrap my arms around her waist, even though I know that logically that would not be okay. Not by a long shot.
First things first. I’ve got to meet her.
Taking another deep draught of air, I begin to cross the room, my heart thumping in my ears louder than the band’s bass drum.
Amelia
I can feel his approach before I see it with my eyes. Electricity shivers over my skin. Every nerve ending stands tall, the tiny hairs on my arms pointing at his advance like a thousand minuscule divination rods.
Warmth emanates from one side. I know it’s him. I turn to take my first close-up eyeful of the man, gritting my teeth as if bracing for impact.
The sight of him truly is an almost physical encounter. Those warm mahogany eyes, the light scatter of grizzled hair across his strong jaw, the way his lips quirk into a smile that makes my toes curl and my breath come too fast.
He is, in a word, perfect.
Which is a ridiculous thing to think. I realize this. I’d thought that Randall was perfect, or at least perfect for me. But now that I’m standing next to a guy that lights every synapse on fire, I wonder if I really knew what chemistry was before this moment.
Because this stranger and I share it.
By comparison, Randall and I were a tepid cup of half-drunk tea forgotten on the sideboard.
For the first time since getting stood up at my own wedding, I feel a glimmer of hope that jilted bride won’t be my final title before transforming to cat hoarder in my waning years as planned. Like Hattie and Emmy said — good riddance.
Because if Randall hadn’t ditched me on what was supposed to be the most lovely day of our lives, I wouldn’t be in Desperado’s sharing oxygen with this man. And being near this stranger suddenly feels more important and far more lovely than anything I have or could have ever shared with Randall.
“Hello.” He ducks his chin, and I imagine that if he was wearing a hat, he’d tug the brim of it down in greeting.
“Hi.” My blood is running thick and hot in my veins, but my voice is even, almost playful. Because, to my surprise, I’m not nervous. Something about this man feels like destiny, as if I’ve already known him in a past life. Not that I necessarily believe in such things, but he’s so familiar that I’m suddenly more inclined to.
I can practically hear my friends’ heads swivel as one to take him in. At my side, Emmy makes a tiny strangled sound of surprise.
“I’m Tatum.”
“Amelia.” I gesture at each of my friends in turn with my gin and tonic. “And this is Hattie, Kate, and Emmy.”
“What brings you here tonight?” His voice is like the purr of an expensive car engine, smooth but powerful. I want to hear my name on his lips.
Kate takes a deep breath as if to answer, but I beat her to it. “Letting off some steam.” I do not want Tatum to know anything about how my day up until this point went. Not yet anyway.
Not yet. Even just the consideration of now versus later makes me realize that I’m already entertaining notions of a future with this man.
That’s no good. I’ve barely met him. I need to slow the fuck down. Because maybe he only wants to flirt — or flirt now in order to lock down some fucking later.
Which, after the epic dumping I endured today, I’m completely fine with. A few no-strings-attached nighttime romps between the sheets might be exactly what I need to start getting over Randall.
But then Tatum extends his hand for me to shake in greeting, and I take it. And when I touch him, all I want to do is keep touching him. It takes sheer force of will for me to not intertwine my fingers with his and hold on tight for as long as he’ll allow. Instead, I clutch my glass with both hands as he shakes hands with my friends, hoping that the cool condensation will steady me.
“I couldn’t help but notice you watching the dancing.” His words carry the hint of a drawl. I relish the sound of it, rolling it around in my head, trying to commit it to permanent memory.
And was it just me, or did he hesitate ever so slightly after saying “you”? As if he was trying to say that he couldn’t help but notice me, full stop. I can’t stop the slow grin that slides over my face at the thought.
“We were,” I answer. “Do you like to dance?”
Now he’s grinning too. “I love to dance.” Tatum glances at my girl posse. “I don’t want to intrude. But if your friends don’t mind, I’d love to steal you away for a song or two. That is, if you want to dance. Do you?”
An edge enters his voice, and it takes me a moment to realize — he’s nervous, and babbling. Like an actual human mortal. The thought that I of all people make this beautiful creature sweaty with nerves is strangely pleasant, and certainly unfamiliar. I’d always felt like I was tagging along at Randall’s heels, taking whatever bone of attention he cared to toss my way. I hadn’t minded it then. I’d figured that was just how men were with their women.
But now I have this stud muffin making eyes at me and practically wringing his hands over asking me to dance, and I’m starting to understand that not all men are like Randall, and that it wasn’t me, either — it was just my ex-fiancé, and he kind of sucked.
Sucks, I correct myself. Because that douchebag ended up abandoning me at the altar in the end.
I’m overdue for a man that actually wants me. And Tatum certainly seems to.
“I’d love to,” I answer. I hand my drink to Emmy. She’s smiling, but her hazel eyes are full of worry.
“Are you sure?” she hisses with lips that barely move so that Tatum can’t read them.
“Never been more sure in my life.” Turning so my shoulder blocks Tatum from the conversation, I take a moment to meet each of my friends’ gazes. “Seriously. Have fun, okay?”
“But —“ Kate begins.
I interrupt her with a shake of my head. “We came here to blow off some steam, to have a good time, right?”
Hattie’s scowling. But slowly, they each nod.
“I’m going to have a good time on the dance floor with this super hot guy. And maybe after that we’ll go have a good time somewhere else, too, if he wants to.” Emmy’s mouth drops open, but I ignore her. “Please believe me — this is what I want.”
After a long moment of silence, they each nod their reluctant acquiescence once again.
“Fine,” Kate says, “but we’re not leaving you here alone with some random guy. At least not yet.”
“Okay.” I smile at her, grateful. I’m not sure what I did to deserve having such amazing women in my life, but I’m damned lucky that I do.
“That’s what friends do,” says Hattie. “And if this guy puts a single hair follicle out of line, I’m going to kick him in the balls.”
Now I laugh out loud, and it’s not long before the rest of my friends are snickering along with me. “Fair enough. Now go have some fun. Got it?”
Hattie gives me a mock salute. “You too. You deserve it.”
She’s right. I do deserve it. Especially after today.
I turn to Tatum, who’s been patiently waiting without craning his neck to overhear our mutterings. “Shall we?” I say, grinning.
He offers me an elbow, and I slide my arm through his, marveling at how easy it feels to be so close to this near-stranger so soon.
The band transitions into a bawdy rendition of “Country Girl,” and the dance floor starts to swirl afresh with whirling, boot-stomping couples.
I might not be a very country type of woman, but I love a good country-style partner dance — and that’s without factoring in that my dance partner is Tatum. My skin tingles just looking at him.
He opens his arms to me and, willingly, I step into them.
Tatum
As we begin to move around the edges of the dance floor, Amelia’s body beneath my hands feels warm and lithe and meant for me to touch. Our steps are tentative at first, but it’s not long until we fall into the rhythm of the music and each other.
She knows how to follow my lead, rocking back when I step close and then returning to me at just the right time. The hem of her skirt dips and flutters, and I shiver when it brushes against my legs.
Now that I’m closer to her, I breathe in her aroma that reminds me of vanilla and fresh-cut wood.
“Ready for a spin?” I ask her.
She gazes up at me, hesitating for only moment before a plucky grin flashes across her face. “Hell yes.”
