27 #2
“Even from my own hotel room I’m embarrassing myself.” I shook my head, laughing. “All of these articles are making me go insane. Like end credits on a nonstop loop running through my head.”
He nodded, understanding. “I know a place that’ll help,” he said, determined. It sounded genuine. Maybe even romantic.
It was unfortunate that there was absolutely nothing he could do to unknot the nerve endings running up and down my body, though.
Not with those rumors floating around and the pictures of Jeremiah and me together.
Kieran’s thumb rubbing the inside of my wrist was not helping either.
The coffee-like jitter in my spine was incurable at this point.
But he tugged on my hand, and an electric buzz zapped my arm, my argument lost on my tongue. I let him guide me into what looked like a jazz club.
The heat of the room consumed us immediately.
Music sounded from the back, where older gentlemen played shiny instruments under low, romantic light.
Red brick built every wall, and antique pictures and newspaper cut-outs crawled the space.
The crowd, who looked a few decades older than us, sat happily at small tables, listening to the slow melodies.
“Here.” I turned, and Kieran was pulling out a seat from a small table.
“Oh. Thank you,” I said, sitting down, trying not to pay attention to how his fingers grazed my back, pushing the seat in. “Very gentlemanly of you. How odd.”
He rolled his eyes. But I saw that smirk. He was enjoying himself. “I don’t know if you deserve it now, but do you want a drink?”
“Gin and tonic with three cherries. It’s on me tonight.” I winked and slid him my card.
Laughter shot from him. “Oh, wow, how gentlemanly of you. I think I can handle a few drinks.” Lines of joy formed in the crevices of his cheeks before he turned to the bar.
I averted my eyes. Staring at Kieran’s ass was definitely not the action of a sane human being.
I did my best to focus on the older couples swaying at their tables, cigarettes and cocktails in their hands.
The buzz of the saxophone, the warmth of the low lamp light, and the intimacy of the room filled me with butterflies. A Frenchman’s voice sounded from the stage. “For this next song, we’ll need you to grab the hand of your mister or missus for a dance.”
Chairs screeched against the floor, and many of the tables were scooted out of the way with urgency as the music picked up. Heels joined dress shoes on the makeshift dance floor. I covered my mouth in surprise as an older gentleman spun a woman as if he wasn’t a day over twenty.
“Dance with me?”
I twisted abruptly to find Kieran with a determined look on his face. The last time he had asked me to dance was over a month ago, when I had just finished pressing my heel into his foot.
Now. Well…
Now, I knew almost nothing.
All I could be sure of was that Kieran’s eyes and voice and lips were an intoxicating, seductive combination that should be illegal in every nation. It was too dangerous. So dangerous that it was poisoning his worst enemy and making her question whether there was ever a reason to dislike him.
No, no. There were so many reasons to dislike him.
Like all of the terrible things he said about me the night we met.
Or the way he looked at me when I argued his points.
Or how he entered my personal space when something went sideways.
Or when he grabbed my hand as if we were romantics.
Or how his dark hair perfectly complemented his eyes and pierced me without any remorse.
And especially when he had kissed me as if this were more than an act.
It was all so… deplorable.
An older woman sitting to my left cut off my train of thought. “Dance with the young man, you heard him!” she interjected with horror. “Or I will.” She looked him up and down.
“Yes,” I quickly said, accepting his hand and saving him.
He pulled me in and held me close. My heart hiccupped as our lips almost brushed. He held on to my waist with the casualness of an ordinary Tuesday night, as if his hands belonged there.
“You almost let her kidnap me right there!”
I suppressed all of those intimate thoughts, covering them with a smile. “Oh, come on, you’re telling me you haven’t been with an older woman before?”
His jaw dropped. “That woman looked about seventy years old.”
My cheeks filled with bursting giggles.
He scoffed. “You really do think I’m some womanizer!”
“Men as pretty as you always are,” I said.
“You think I’m pretty?” Boyish delight was in his eyes.
Holding in my laughter, I pushed his chest. He fought right back, grabbing my wrists and pulling me in. Heat flooded my body. I hated myself for it. If he hadn’t been holding on to me, I’d probably lean into him. The muscles in my legs were so tired. And my self-control was waning just as quickly.
My body was betraying me more and more.
“Are you still thinking about him?” His voice was gruff.
“Thinking about who?” I exhaled.
“Good,” he breathed.