Page 37 of How to Get Lucky
“That’s definitely something I would love to see, so have at it anytime.” I like the idea of dancing with her a lot, so I lean in closer and whisper, “I do kill it at the slow dancing though.”
“You don’t say?”
“I don’t mean to brag, but I was voted best male lead at cotillion in seventh and eighth grade, so . . .” I leave the sentence hanging with a smile.
“In that case, I should probably check out this award-winning slow dancing. For the sake of hypotheses that need to be tested.”
“Yes. You should conduct all the experiments. That is, if you insist.”
She adopts a serious expression. “I do insist. I need to run my own research. Corruption in the cotillion circuit is well-documented.”
I’m about to offer to spin her around on the dance floor for a number when a loud, bright voice hits my ears.
“London!” Bloom exclaims as she makes her way to us, then tugs at London’s arm. “My bridesmaids are demanding an epic dancer, and you’re an epic dancer. So your presence is requested on the floor.”
London’s smile takes over her face. “Then we must dance all night long.”
Bloom glances my way, then at London, then at me again. Something sparks in her eyes. “But don’t you worry. I’ll let you return to flirting with this handsome musical Jedi very soon. Come dance.”
With a sexy shrug that says she’s following the flirting orders from on high, London’s eyes travel in my direction.
Exactly where I want them.
I fade into Usher’s “Yeah!” and as the beat drops hard and fast, Bloom and London bound to the dance floor to a chorus of cheers from the other guests.
As London dances, her eyes keep meeting mine.
I know exactly what she’s thinking.
Same thing I am.
Looks like we both want to break the rogue-kissing pact.
20
Two hours of celebratory revelry later, London is still here with a few lingering guests. The crowd has thinned, and several centerpieces are conspicuously absent. Past a sea of half-empty champagne glasses and partially eaten cake slices, London stands at the edge of the dance floor, fingers toying with her bracelets, looking like the heroine at the end of a wedding sequence in a movie.
Fade in on the candlelight from the tables flickering off her cheeks, the party lights sparkling through her wavy hair. Her soulful brown eyes lock right on me.
She walks over to me. “All right, DJ. Let’s test those slow-dancing skills.”
“All in the name of science,” I say a little huskily because my throat is dry from looking at her. I hit play on “End of the Road.” I’m a hopeful guy tonight, and I’ve had this track ready and waiting for London’s invitation. Boyz II Men floats across the warm evening air.
I head in her direction and wrap my arms around this beautiful woman, bringing her close. Another couple sways together several feet away, but as far as I’m concerned, my whole world begins and ends on this tiny corner of the dance floor, this space where I have zero worries about work and career and a future.
There is no room for anything here but her and me, and how we fit.
“Did Nate leave?” I ask.
“Yes. He went out with some friends.”
That answer tells me everything.
She’s not leaving with him.
And my body replies—I want her to go home with me.
London leans her head against my shoulder, and I catch a heady whiff of the citrusy scent that makes me dizzy with want. I breathe her in as our bodies come together, drawn closer by this night, this song. The rest of the guests, most long gone now, were drunk on prosecco and gin. I’m intoxicated by this woman.
We don’t speak. This moment doesn’t need words. With the palm trees rustling from a soft evening breeze and the stage lights mingling with the starlight, we move together, her arms looped around my neck.
Both my hands cup her sculpted ass—because where else would I rest my hands?—and I pull back slightly so I can look at her face. Hard to look anyplace else.
“This must be my lucky day,” I say.
“Why’s that?” she asks, her eyes all soft and glossy.
“Accidentally booked a dream gig, the event went off without a hitch, and now I’m dancing with a gorgeous, clever, irresistible woman alone on the dance floor.”
Furtively, London glances around, tipping her chin to the other couple enjoying the last song of the night. “Technically, we’re not alone, Teddy.”
“You want to bust me on a technicality? Or should we consider it within the scientific margin of error or whatever you call it?”
“Science and science geeks can only explain so much. Maybe I’m your lucky charm,” she whispers against my neck.
Luck. Is this luck? Or is want making me reckless? The club, my relationship with my boss, my burgeoning business—all are at stake.
