Page 8
Jagger Cartwright
Lainey puts her hand in mine.
I don't know why it socks me square in the chest, but it does. I've had women slide their arms around my neck, kiss me before I've even learned their name, and whisper things in my ear that would make my grandmother reach for her Bible. But this—just her palm settling against mine, a little hesitant, like she's still deciding if this is a good idea—tells me I better not make any mistakes.
I pull her toward the dance floor before she can change her mind.
"For someone who claims she can't dance, you sure didn't put up much of a fight," I comment, tugging her in close, more than I probably have any business doing four minutes after meeting her.
She warns, "Don't get used to it."
"Too late." I settle a hand at her waist, feel her breath catch under my palm, and it's the best thing that's happened to me all night. My other hand keeps hold of hers, and I run my thumb once across her knuckles just to see what she does.
She lifts her chin and holds my gaze steady, like she's not about to let me rattle her.
Game on.
Damn this girl is interesting!
One thing I've always enjoyed is a challenge. If she wants to give me one, I'll happily accept.
But, darling', I'm going to win.
She's got the kind of looks that a man can't just glance at and not want to study. Her red hair falls in loose waves past her shoulders, catching gold under the string lights every time she moves. Her green eyes shift from dark to bright depending on how the light hits them. And her sharp wit, which keeps pace with mine instead of giggling after my sentences, is piquing my interest.
She's not overly tall. She's somewhere around my shoulder even in her high boots. But she carries herself like she doesn't care much whether a room notices her or not. And that's exactly why I do.
The black glitter dress she's wearing fits her like it was made for her, skimming curves that are making it really hard to keep my eyes where they belong. Her skin's got a warm, sun-kissed look to it, like she spends more time outdoors than she probably lets on.
When she laughs, a small scatter of freckles appears across her nose. And she's got a habit of biting the corner of her bottom lip when she's thinking of a comeback, which she does often enough that I've started wanting to see it again.
Everything about her reads soft at first glance and sharp on second look with her delicate wrists and her easy smile. It's stunning. Right up until she opens her mouth and matches me word for word, and that combination, more than anything else, is what's got me more interested in a woman than I've been in years.
The band eases into a slow song, all steel guitar and heartbreak, the kind built for getting closer to her. I move us into it easily, taking the lead so she doesn't have to think, just follow. She steps on my boot once, and I don't even flinch, because I'm too busy noticing the way her cheeks flush pink under the string lights.
I assert, "You're better than you said."
"I just stepped on your foot. You're better at lying than I expected." She bats her eyes at me.
"I don't lie." I spin her out, then reel her back in, even closer this time. Her warm, clean scent reminds me of vanilla and rain.
"Don't you?" she pushes.
I admit, "I exaggerate for effect. Different thing entirely."
"Feels the same from where I'm standing."
"Where are you standing?"
"Regretting a dance already."
"Liar." I press my hand to her waist. "You're not regretting a single second of this."
She doesn't answer, which tells me I'm right.
I've spent the better part of the last hour working the room the way I always do on a Friday night. I bought rounds, caught up with half the county, and let Shelby Ann plant one on me like she does every time she's had two margaritas and a grudge against her ex.
None of it means anything. It never does. It's just noise I make so people leave me be about the parts of my life I don't particularly want to discuss on a barroom floor. But this woman in my arms has quieted all that noise down to nothing.
