Chapter Fifteen – Fawn #2
The bar staff even look amazed. A few of them are smiling, bobbing along to the music as if they’re about to throw him a buck. I’m surprised someone isn’t yelling at him to get down, but perhaps the universe is treating me for once. Perhaps it’s payback for the way my night has gone so far.
Torin shuffles closer to me, folding his arms over his chest, shaking his head in a combination of disbelief and admiration as he observes Dylan make a complete spectacle of himself.
He dips his head, mouth angled at my ear. “Wanna know something funny? This song is his alarm tone. Pretty sure he dances to it every morning.” His voice drops to a slightly laughter-touched pitch. “He’s crazy, right? But at least all eyes are on him now.”
A laugh bubbles out of me and my head bobs in response.
He’s right — I am lucky that Dylan was willing to make such a spectacle of himself in my name.
Secretly, though? I can tell the man has a passion for the attention he receives.
He and Torin have rescued me, quite literally, not once but twice this evening. They deserve something: a thank-you or an award. Maybe a lifetime supply of my books — if I manage to finish the one I’m currently writing.
Something yanks at me from the inside. Without meaning to, without choosing to, my eyes land on Torin.
And he’s already looking at me just like he did when we first made eye contact at the rink.
We’re stuck there, in the midst of this music and chaos. Something flashes in his eyes, something sultry, something full of knowledge. His gaze doesn’t falter. He glances down at my lips then back to my eyes.
My stomach flutters, remembering when he touched me, when the world seemed to tilt off its axis.
One part of me wishes we could just continue where we left off.
God, I want to.
But the idea becomes too loud, too threatening, so I tear my eyes away and refocus them back on Dylan, dancing as if he’s auditioning for Magic Mike: Ice Edition.
Oh, shit. I start to feel the effects of the three shots — like a train, like a wall, like gravity just figured out how to do its job. My head goes warm, like I’m swimming. My knees feel like they’re bending too much, and my eyes blink slowly.
Still, Torin doesn’t exactly leave my head. He simmers there, stubborn and impossible to ignore.
Dylan falls to his knees, landing firmly on the bar, one hand braced against it while the other beckons me slowly to go over. His grin is all trouble, and his eyes make no effort to hide it.
I shake my hands vigorously. “Hell no.”
But before I can take a step, Torin presses the palm of his hand firmly on the small of my back, nudging me forward.
“Go on,” he whispers, sending my pulse racing.
My legs betray me the whole way to the bar, trembling beneath me. He’d better not make me dance. If he makes me dance, I swear, I’m leaving Ivywood — actually, the country.
The second I’m close enough, Dylan leans in, his warm breath in my ear. “Open your mouth, princess.”
My heart skips a beat. It’s the alcohol, it has to be. Because if I were sober, I’d laugh and walk away. But right now? My brain’s a mushy, tipsy mess.
My lips part open, unhurried.
Dylan pours from a small bottle, the cold liquid shooting straight into my mouth. I feel it touch my tongue, the burn rolling down as I swallow.
“That’s a good girl,” he teases, his voice full of mischief and seduction.
Then, without saying another word, he kisses my forehead and pops back up to keep dancing like nothing happened.
Damn, being called a good girl and a princess does something to me.
I always thought it was just a romance book thing, some trope that only works on paper, not in real life.
But the way Dylan says it sends a warm, fuzzy feeling straight through my tipsy body.
Talking about bodies — Dylan looks so hot up there. His six-pack is practically sparkling under the lights. Is it naughty of me that I want to . . . touch it?
Run my hands along each crevice? For research purposes, obviously.
Fuck, I’m officially drunk.
My body feels light, my head floaty as a balloon, and the bar has a soft, forgiving blur that only comes after too many questionable choices in liquid form.
I make my way back through the crowd toward our table, and as I do, I spot Harper; her face is puckered, like someone just slapped her in the face with a wet fish.
Oh yeah. She definitely saw the forehead kiss.
There’s a small need in me to blow her a kiss, you know, to give it some gusto . . .
But instead, I come to a halt right beside her, tilt my head, and produce the biggest, most sugary-sweet smile I can. God, that feels good.
It’s the alcohol talking, and sitting down feels like the best plan I’ve had all night. But as I stroll up to Torin, my foot catches on nothing, literally nothing, and I’m close to tumbling forward.
His hands are on me in an instant, steady and sure. “Whoa,” he says, drawing out the word. “Easy.” He helps me on the stool, keeping me upright.
I blink up at him, smiling because everything feels too big, too bright, too funny.
“I think—” I tilt my head briefly, holding his veiny arm. “I think I’m drunk.”
A wild giggle erupts, and Torin’s mouth twitches, as if he’s suppressing the strongest urge to smile.
“No fucking shit.” He raises an eyebrow as he holds me in place with a hand on my waist. “You could use a glass of water.”
I could. However, the giggles just keep coming, and I try to stand but fall back on the stool.
Torin tilts his head, his lips turning up in response, though he’s trying to show he’s beyond amused. “Sit. Before you land on your face.”
And honestly? Given the wobbly quality of the floor, he’s probably right.