Page 32 of Sundown Somewhere

I scoot forward, ready to reach out to her, take her hand, and tell her that this isn’t a her problem. That Jeff is the douchebag here. That’s why I’ve referred to him as Douche Baggins in my head for the last six years—and will promptly start referring to him that way out loud from now on. But before I start, she cuts me off.

“I need more tequila.”

Or there’s that…

“As you wish.”

I flag over the waitress, ordering another round of whatever tequila number three was, as well as a margarita for Dolly and a beer for myself. We might be walking back to the hotel, but one of us does need to remain relatively sober, which means I need to slow down.

Shot number four brings out the giggles, loosening Dolly up even more as we sit and enjoy the evening air. Sipping on her margarita, she hums along with the classic rock song the band is playing, her impish smile firmly in place.

“Do you know the difference between a man and a margarita?” she asks, in a fit of giggles.

“No, but I bet you’re gonna tell me…”

“The margarita hits the spot every time.”

I chuckle, unable to help myself. “The right man knows what he’s doing, and doesn’t give up until he’s found his woman’s spot…multiple times. Sounds to me like you were with the wrong one.”

“We know that,” she drunkenly snarks. “Hence the whole purpose of this trip. And the tequila requirement.”

Touché…

“I love this song. It’s the perfect song for dancing to. Jeff hated to dance.”

“D’ya wanna dance?” I ask, trying to get a feel for if she’s testing the waters or just complaining.

She looks at me skeptically, one eyebrow lifted. “Errr, you don’t like it either.”

Pushing to my feet, I take her drink from her, setting it down on the ledge by the fire. I take her hand and pull her to her feet, wrapping my arm around her.

“I don’t hate dancing. It’s just not⁠—”

Dolly cuts me off, finishing my sentence for me, knowing exactly what I’m going to say. Because of course she does. “A preferred activity.”

“Exactly.” I wink.

I don’t hate dancing—I simply hate dancing with women who aren’t her.

Leading her out to the floor, I make sure not to break contact. The soft, mid-tempo ballad doesn’t have the right timing for a two-step, but there is enough of something to push her around to it. To hold her close and make her feel adored. Exactly how every woman should feel on the dance floor.

“You’re better at this than you think,” she whispers, tightening her grip on me.

“Never said I was bad.”

“Oh, sorry, just that it’s not preferred,” she throws back at me. “You know, you might have better luck with women if you went dancing more.”

I scoff. “I do just fine.”

More than “fine” actually. Hence Mrs. Chamberlain’s tomcat accusation last week. Followed by Anton calling me a manwhore. Which is better than when Gus called me a slut after I broke our couch. To be fair, I might have deserved that one—I mean, I did break the couch fucking some girl whose name I don’t remember—but I replaced it. And I haven’t brought a girl back to the house since.

“Don’t you want something more than just…whatever it is you get from all the girls you just see once?”

I give Dolly a twirl, eyes glued to her hips as her skirt flares, my mouth watering and my hands aching, a part of me wishing I was holding her differently. A sign that I need to move from beer to water.

“Nope.”

It’s a simple answer, but the truth. Those encounters are purely physical, and that’s all I require them to be.