Total pages in book: 145
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147733 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 739(@200wpm)___ 591(@250wpm)___ 492(@300wpm)
“It’s just a dance,” he says gently. “But if you’re not up for that—”
“Sure! Nothing beats having a little fun at work, right?” It’s also not like the dating pool out here runs deep anyway. I might as well have fun with a guy who’s easy on the eyes and dangerous in flannel.
He leads me onto the dance floor just as the song changes over. The next one is slower and rhythmic with barely any tempo.
But he places his hands on my hips and pulls me to him after a few beats.
O-kay.
I didn’t really plan on dancing quite this close, but fine. Whatever.
He’s far from repulsive and it’s nice to know it when a man is into you, even if you’re not after anything serious.
I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I lock them behind his neck.
He’s not the greatest dancer or else he’s had too much beer, so we mostly just sway to the music in this cute awkward sidestep that makes me laugh every few minutes.
I’m still mindful of the camerawork going on around us.
Honestly, I hope this won’t wind up anywhere online.
Of course, Miles Cromwell catches my gaze from the side of the room when I look over. He’s staring at us with a fresh beer and a fist coiled like a hammer at his side.
My stomach catches and I almost gasp.
Ace’s grip tightens, his eyes asking if I’m okay.
I nod.
I’m not sure why it bothers me.
Until he appears behind Ace and taps him on the shoulder. Ace looks at him without answering, his eyes glassy with irritation.
“My turn,” Cromwell grinds out, his voice pure smolder.
Oh, boy.
A beat of silence passes as the music thrums on and our swaying slows.
“Uh, okay—if it’s all right with the lady.” Ace gives me a sharp look.
“Who do you think I was talking to?” Cromwell says coldly.
My heart jumps as I look between them.
They’re about three seconds away from throwing hands and sending someone home with a broken nose. I can’t let a stupid man-trum bar fight ruin our work tonight.
“Ace, it’s fine. He’s just my boss. I’ll catch you later!” It flies out of my mouth too fast.
Ace raises an eyebrow and slowly nods.
I drop my arms from his neck and take a step back.
Cromwell catches one of my hands before Ace even has time to move and jerks me to his chest. Before I can catch my breath, I’m watching Ace shrug and retreat to the corner with his people.
“Was that necessary?” My brows knit together.
“You agreed,” he says like that’s the end of it.
Holy crap.
And here I was annoyed that the Dracula nickname might be too kind when most vampires are mild mannered and charming when they aren’t draining arteries.
Miles Cromwell is just the world’s hottest horse’s ass.
Thankfully, the song stops. I have good reason to take a step back.
But he doesn’t release my hand. “Wait for the next track. This is my dance.”
“You sound so sure, Mr. Cromwell,” I say flatly.
His wrist snaps, pulling me closer to his chest again.
When I finish blinking in shock, I’m wedged against his slab of a chest with eyes like midnight raking me.
“I am sure,” he whispers.
I shudder as he laces his long, firm fingers through one hand and drops the other hand to my hip. “Fair warning, Miss Landers, I actually dance. I wouldn’t be caught dead with his drunken shuffle.”
I hate him.
I hate him so much.
Still, my whole body tingles from his touch, begging to lean into him, to inhale more of his scent that’s like a dark summer pine forest and some animal seduction.
But I don’t give in.
I don’t dare.
Jesus, I work for this maniac.
“You’d better not throw me around. The only dance I really know is cheer dance.”
He snorts. “Why am I not surprised?”
His steps are wide and graceful and hard to keep up with without focusing. But after a few seconds, I stop fighting and match his movements. It’s easy when I let him lead.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You still have the figure. If I had to write your biography, I would have guessed,” he says, his eyes flitting over me, dipping over my neckline.
I definitely don’t. I’m twenty to thirty pounds heavier than I ever was in high school, but the unexpected flattery makes this more tolerable.
“Yeah? And what does a cheerleader look like?”
“You.” He smiles then.
A real human smile that makes me think he’ll light up and sparkle like the good vampires you read about.
He doesn’t, of course, but he makes me smile back like I’m a little broken.
“You’re going in circles,” I say.
“Really more of a square.”
The dancing, he means.
I laugh.
He takes another one of those wide, too graceful steps that I’ve learned to keep up with. Only, this time I misstep and land on his toes.
I only notice because I almost fall as my foot slides off his shoe.