Chapter 16
KRISTA
Ipulled back from the kiss, my heart hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat. My lips were still tingling. My entire body was singing a song I didn’t know, but I wanted to memorize it. That wasn’t supposed to happen.
There was no protocol for this. No checklist. No five-point plan for what to do when you kiss the man you’re supposed to be managing. The man you’d actively despised just days ago. Hell, hours ago if I was being honest. The man whose chaos you were hired to contain.
I touched my fingers to my lips, still feeling the pressure of his mouth on mine.
Still tasting him. Dash was watching me with an expression that reflected my own reaction, which was confusing.
He did this all the time, right? But he didn’t look smug.
He looked like the earth moved. It didn’t feel like a mistake.
It felt like the most honest thing I’d done in years.
I became hyperaware of everything wrong with me in that moment. My practical cotton underwear that had seen better days. My no-brand deodorant that was probably failing after a long day in the Mediterranean heat. The fact that I was so basic and he was so… perfect.
Why did I care? When had I started caring about whether my panties and bra matched and if they were sexy?
I didn’t. But I suddenly did. I was very aware of everything.
He’d been casually flirting with me but I thought it was just how he passed the time.
I figured he flirted the way some people read or do sudoku.
What was he thinking? He’d just kissed this version of me. Was I supposed to believe he was attracted to my khaki shorts that did nothing for my figure? The sandals that could be for a man or woman.
My mind was racing, trying to make sense of it.
Trying to categorize and organize these feelings the way I organized everything else in my life.
But they wouldn’t fit into neat boxes. It was too much.
I hated him. Loathed everything about him.
Thought he was everything wrong with privilege and carelessness and entitled men who never had to face consequences.
But that wasn’t entirely true, was it? I’d seen glimpses of something else. The way he’d listened when I told him about my mother. The competence he showed when he actually focused. The generosity, even if it was wrapped in privilege.
There was depth there. And now I was softening toward him in ways that terrified me.
His hand cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed along my jawline.
“I’m going to kiss you again,” he said. “Unless you tell me not to.”
I should tell him not to. Instead, I leaned in.
This kiss was different from the first. His lips pushed harder, demanding I part my lips.
I did and his tongue swept inside my mouth with an intensity that made my knees weak.
Good thing I was sitting down. His other hand came up to frame my face.
And holy shit, I was going to spontaneously combust. I would have to throw myself into the fountain.
I felt myself melting into him. My hands moved to his chest, finally getting to touch the spots I’d been ogling since I caught a glimpse of him shirtless. I’d spent days trying not to notice his body. Now I couldn’t stop touching it.
Heat pooled low in my belly. A deep, insistent ache I hadn’t felt in so long I’d almost forgotten what it was like. Lust. Pure, uncomplicated, overwhelming lust. I had made myself invisible to men to the point I wasn’t sure I would ever be desirable.
In my mind, I started writing a story about the way the night might end. His room. That massive bed with no pillow wall. Clothes coming off. His hands on my skin. My hands on his. That ridiculous body naked and over mine. His mouth on mine, on my neck, lower.
My body wanted it. God, how it wanted it. But my brain was screaming warnings. This was Dash Blackwell. My assignment. My job. The man I was supposed to be keeping in line, not sleeping with.
I pulled back, breathless. My chest was heaving. So was his.
“Dash,” I managed. “This can’t happen.”
“I know,” he said.
But neither of us moved. We sat there on the edge of the fountain, faces inches apart, both of us breathing hard.
“I’m supposed to be managing you.”
“You are managing me.” His thumb traced my lower lip. “Very effectively.”
I shivered. “This isn’t professional.”
“Fuck professional.”
I almost laughed. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who has to report to your family.”
That sobered him slightly. His hand dropped from my face, but he didn’t pull away entirely. “Right. Adrian.”
“And Briggs.”
“Double trouble.”
I looked down at the rose still clutched in my hand. It was embarrassing, but I had never been given flowers. “I don’t want to go back to the hotel yet.”
“Good. Because I’m not ready for this to end.”
He pulled me to my feet, and we stood there, fingers intertwined, neither of us quite ready to let go.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“I have no idea. Let’s just walk.”
I loved the idea. We wandered past shops closing for the night and restaurants with outdoor seating where couples lingered over wine. Musicians playing for tips on street corners made me think of New York.
We turned a corner and heard music drifting from somewhere ahead—not recorded music, but live voices accompanied by cheers and laughter.
We followed the sound until we found ourselves standing outside a small cafe with its windows thrown open to the night air.
Inside, a woman was belting out what sounded like an ABBA song while a crowd of people clapped along.
“Karaoke,” Dash said, grinning. “Come on. It’s a new family tradition.”
I had no clue what that meant, but he pulled me toward the entrance before I could say anything.
The cafe was packed, warm with body heat and the smell of sweet liquor and strong perfumes and colognes.
A makeshift stage had been set up in one corner with a microphone and a screen displaying lyrics.
The woman finished her song to enthusiastic applause and bounded off the stage, laughing.
I felt my body go rigid. An open mic. My mother’s favorite thing in the world.
“You want to sing?” Dash asked, leaning close so I could hear him over the noise.
I shook my head so hard my ponytail whipped back and forth. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on. When’s the last time you did something just for fun?”
“Never. And I’m keeping that streak alive.”
He laughed and moved closer, his mouth near my ear. “What if I make a complete fool of myself first? Would that help?”
“How would that help?”
“I’ve seen it work before. But look, I’ll sing anything you want. Any song. I’ll butcher it spectacularly in front of all these people, and then you’ll feel better about your own potential humiliation.”
I looked up at him, searching his face for signs he was joking. He wasn’t. “You’d really do that?”
“I’m telling you, it’s kind of a Blackwell thing. My brother Briggs sang karaoke to his now wife, wooing her with his singing abilities. It won her over. It’s all over the internet. I can find it if you want.”
The image of serious, suit-wearing Briggs Blackwell singing karaoke made me smile despite myself. I had only met the guy once. He was intimidating as hell, even to someone like me who was rarely intimidated by anyone. “That sounds hilarious, but I’m going to pass.”
I loved singing. I was itching to grab the microphone and give my vocal chords a good workout. I just didn’t want to do it in front of Dash. That was a side of myself I kept far away from my professional life.
“Fair enough. But I’m still doing this.” He started toward the stage, then turned back. “Pick a song. Anything.”
My mind went blank for a second, then landed on something ridiculous. “Night Moves. Bob Seger.”
He blinked. “Really?”
“You said anything. Do you know it?”
He gave me a dry look. “I don’t live under a rock. My dad loved that kind of music.”
I watched him approach the DJ booth. He said something that made the DJ laugh. He picked up the microphone and waggled his eyebrows at me. The opening notes of Night Moves began playing through the speakers.
I would eat my shoe if he actually sang the song. Dash was a lot of things, but I couldn’t imagine him being some karaoke superstar.
“We have an American tourist who wants to take us back to the seventies!” the DJ announced in accented English. “Give it up for… what’s your name, friend?”
“Dash!” he called out.
The crowd cheered. Of course they did. He had that effect on people. My eyes moved around the cafe. Oh yes, he had the full attention of every woman in the room. I was just a little jealous. But I reminded myself I was the one that could still taste him on my tongue.
And then he started singing.
He was terrible. Gloriously, enthusiastically awful. He missed half the notes, forgot some of the words, and had to read frantically from the screen. But he committed to every second of it, throwing himself into the performance with zero self-consciousness.
The crowd ate it up. People were clapping, laughing, and even singing along. A group of women near the bar were practically swooning, calling out encouragement in Greek and broken English. I knew he could point at any woman in the cafe and they’d go home with him.
But Dash wasn’t looking at them. His eyes were locked on me. Every terrible note was all directed at me. Like I was the only person in the entire cafe. Like those beautiful women waving at him didn’t even exist. And holy shit, my entire being felt like it was glowing.
I found myself smiling. Then laughing. Then actually moving closer to the stage because I didn’t want to miss a single second of this absurd, wonderful performance. I wanted to be front and center.
When he hit the chorus, he pointed at me and sang “working on our night moves” with such ridiculous enthusiasm that I had to cover my face with my hands.
The rose was still clutched between my fingers.
I was already planning on drying it, pressing it, and cherishing it forever as a memory of tonight.
The song ended to thunderous applause. Dash took an exaggerated bow, handed back the microphone, and bounded off the stage directly to me.
“Your turn,” he said, slightly breathless.
“Not a chance.”
“Come on. I held up my end.”
“You said you’d make a fool of yourself so I’d feel better. You didn’t say I actually had to sing.”
“Well, it was implied.” He was grinning, his face flushed from the performance and the attention. “But I’ll let it slide this time.”
“This worked for your brother?” I asked.
“Oh yeah.” He nodded. “Elvis.”
“Elvis?”
“I’ll have to find that video, but basically, they got drunk in Vegas. He sang her Elvis and they got blackout drunk and ended up getting married by Elvis. Well, an impersonator, obviously. Not the real Elvis.”
I stared at him. “Briggs? As in your brother Briggs Blackwell?”
“The same one.”
I was never going to look at the man the same way again.
“Let’s get a drink,” he said. “We can see how many it takes for me to bust out some Elvis myself.”