Page 8 of Troublemaker: The Big Picture Edition

“He is, actually. In the long-term, big picture kind of way.”

“You want a little help trying to convince him? I’ve gotten pretty good at pretending to have a good time at parties and bars lately.”

“That is kind of sad, and I’ve never felt so sorry for someone who’s so ridiculously handsome and confident, but yes. Please pretend to have fun with me.”

“Unless you want to go someplace quieter. Like an Abercrombie & Fitch store. Or an airport runway. You can keep trying to call your friend and tell him to meet you there.”

She seems to actually be considering this option, and even though I’m willing to do a pretty long list of things with her at this point, I really fucking hope she wants to get out of here so we can continue talking without getting laryngitis.

“Will you dance with me?”

Shit.

I hate dancing.

Hate it.

I only ever danced in public with my ex-wife when I was drunk, and even then, I hated it.

But I don’t want hot, intriguing, judge-y Emmy with the glasses to dance or shower with anyone else tonight.

CHAPTER 4

EMILIA

“What the hell?” he says, not enthusiastically. But he’s agreeable nonetheless. “If that’s what you want. Yeah.”

He holds his hand out, gesturing for me to lead the way down to the dance floor. I reach out and take his hand to pull him along behind me as we venture toward the stairs. I’m not usually the kind of girl who holds hands with strangers, but I’m also not usually the kind of girl who finds herself in some shiny, noisy, high-end LA nightclub, andholy shit this guy is hot.

I feel his hand, briefly, on the small of my back as we wind through groups of people.

Holy shit that felt good.

Brent never danced with me. Not once. Not even at weddings. That’s going on the list.Fuck you, Brent.

It’s because of him that I’m a tad tipsier than I’d planned on being tonight. After dinner I got a text asking if I’d made it to LA safely. Two days after I’d left Paso Robles. Perhaps he was just trying to give me the space I needed, butfuck you, Brent.I sent him a thumbs-up emoji and then agreed to come to this club with Franklin, despite being vehemently opposed to the idea oneminute earlier. “If they serve alcohol there, then sure,” I’d told him.

I can’t believe I lost Franklin. I mean, it’s only been about twenty minutes I guess, but still. He kept ordering me Jäger shots as soon as we got here, but as soon as The Guy showed up, I knew I’d have to fend for myself. He seems to have an unusually massive crush on this one, so I cut him some slack. They’re probably huddled together in a corner somewhere, critiquing people’s outfits andnotwondering where I am. But I can hardly be mad at the asshole.

Because Alejandro.

He is one tall drink of Sangria, and I would eat pray love all over him, all night long.

Wait, what?

I mean, normally I wouldn’t. But maybe New Me will. Apparently, New Me holds hands with strangers and makes very subtle blow job insinuations. His hand is warm and protective, even though I reached for him first. He squeezes my hand and pulls in front of me as we walk down the stairs. I don’t know if he’s being a gentleman or if he’s making sure I don’t tumble down the steps, but I’m grateful. I am a little woozy. The good kind of woozy. But woozy. And tingly in places that haven’t felt tingly in a really long time. From my head down to my toes, but mostly somewhere in between.

Alejandro can’t be more than five years older than me, but he’sa man. He carries himself like a man. He talks like a man. He looks to me like a man who’s always either just gotten out of bed or he’s about to take someone to bed with him. He looks at me like he knows what I look like naked. Or like he knows exactly what to say or do to get me naked. And I find myself wanting him to know exactly what I look like naked, which is pretty unusual for me.

But probably not unusual for women who’ve just done four Jägermeister shots.

And probably not unusual for any woman on the receiving end of that look.

He leads me to a spot in the center of the dance floor and turns to face me. A Mark Ronson and Alicia Keys song is playing (yeah, I know who Mark Ronson is—I’m not a hundred). It’s loud and mid-tempo, and I can feel the bass vibrating on the soles of my feet and in the pit of my stomach and in my marrow. And my clitoris. My clitoris has felt like the center of the universe for the past ten minutes. Andokay, I guess I understand why people do this.I feel like I’m twenty again.

Alejandro stays about six inches from me. We easily find the beat of the song and the rhythm of the people around us. His head is tilted down, his broad shoulders roll forward a bit, and he moves his lower body just enough for it to be considered dancing and I consider it completely sexy. He starts to mirror my swaying shoulders.

My nipples are so erect right now, I drag my hand across my chest ever so quickly to check to make sure they aren’t poking holes through the fabric. I didn’t even know they could get this hard. They’re pointing at this man likeHey you—the idiot we’re attached to—do you even see this guy? Get closer to him immediately and rub us against him!