Chapter 12
“Treacherous” - Taylor Swift
Pierce
We’re getting too old for this. Purple lights are strobing throughout the club, and velvet sofas line the walls. Lush plants dot the room and hang from the open rafters. It’s a swanky place, but most people in the crowd appear to be in their early twenties.
“Anyone else think we may have aged out of this scene?” I say, taking my drink from the bartender.
Rhett claps a hand on my shoulder. “Nah, mate. But maybe if you didn’t dress like a forty-year-old man, you’d get a little more action.” He flicks a finger against my dress shirt before leading Saylor to the dance floor.
I glance down at my clothes. Slacks, button-down, belt, shoes. I’m not even wearing a tie. What is his problem?
“Don’t listen to him,” Heath says. “Someone needs to be the dad.”
Walker socks him in the stomach with her elbow.
My eyes find their way to Maeve, something that happens way too often these days.
She’s wearing a dark strapless minidress with a sweetheart neckline and chandelier earrings.
(Before you ask, yes I know what those are.
I have a girlfriend.) It’s been over a week since I kissed Maeve in the bloody lift, and I can’t stop thinking about it.
It’s like a scab you can’t stop picking.
And before you ask, yeah I remember that I have a girlfriend. I shouldn’t have kissed Maeve. It was a shit thing to do, but it’s done. I’m not going to tell Amara about it, because it would only hurt her, and for what purpose? There’s nothing going on between Maeve and me. I would never cheat.
Let’s just say Maeve has always fascinated me. She talks a big game, but I’m convinced that underneath all that bravado, she’s actually a scared little puppy. I only caught a glimpse of it during that kiss, but it was enough to confirm my suspicions.
All of our friends have coupled up and are on the dance floor, even Heath and Walker.
Somehow I missed him convincing her to dance.
Maeve is still leaning against the bar, nursing her French 75 and looking everywhere but at me.
She hasn’t made eye contact with me since the elevator.
I know, because I can’t keep my eyes off her.
In what I really hope is a smooth move, I sidle up next to her, close enough that she can hear me over the music, but not close enough to scare her away. It seemed like the perfect distance in my mind, but she still shifts farther from me.
Goddamn it, this woman.
I close the distance between us, because fuck it. Leaning down, I say into her ear, “Dance with me.”
She pretends not to hear me, just takes another sip of her drink, but the small tick in her jaw gives her away.
“Come on, Maeve. Say yes.”
She whirls on me so quickly, I nearly spill my Negroni. “You know very well I’m not a club dancer.”
“It’s not like we have anything else to do.” I keep my eyes on her as I lift my glass to my lips.
“Then maybe you should have brought your girlfriend to keep you entertained.”
I never bring my girlfriends when we hang out, and she knows this. “Still haven’t been laid, have you?” I say, shaking my head.
The sharp intake of air through her nose makes her nostrils flare, and honestly, that’s enough for me tonight. Just that tiny reaction scratches the itch I had to make her feel something. But at the same time, it also peels back the lid on my desire to watch her explode.
I don’t get the chance, however, because she moves into the crowd, leaving me at the bar to watch her retreating form sparkle as the lights catch her dress. Why the fuck does she have to be so beautiful?
By the time I’ve ordered a second drink, Maeve has finished her cocktail at the other end of the lounge. But before I can ask the bartender to make her another, this random bloke approaches her. I can’t hear what they’re saying, but she hops off her barstool and follows him to the dance floor.
The fucking balls on this guy. Maeve isn’t exactly approachable under the best of circumstances, but tonight? Tonight she’s dressed to kill.
Tonight I have the strange urge to kill as well. The energy thrumming through my veins is not from the DJ’s pounding music or the alcohol in my blood. It’s definitely from a desire to annihilate the guy dancing with her.
Sipping my drink, I watch them. Couldn’t tell you what the wanker looks like, though, because she has my full attention. She looks ill at ease out there, because she’s right—club dancing isn’t really her thing. But put her in a ballroom, and prepare to be amazed.
Someone lets out a low whistle, and I turn to find Rhett next to me at the bar, Heath on his other side. Rhett nods toward Maeve and the mystery guy. “Maeve’s dancing? What’s next? Cats doing the tango?”
I shake my head and take another drink. “No fucking clue.”
Heath leans over the counter. “I rather thought the two of you might . . .”
Frowning, I look up. Do they know something they shouldn’t? “Might what?”
“Dance.” He shrugs and lifts his beer bottle to his lips.
“I tried,” I say. “She turned me down.”
“She turned you down, mate? What the fuck?” Rhett says.
My eyes move back to the dance floor, because apparently I can’t go more than thirty seconds without getting a fix.
Why does her rejection sting so badly? Maeve turns down everything suggested to her.
You tell her how good the smoked salmon is, and she’ll intentionally order the duck, then the next time she goes without you, she’ll get the salmon.
Doesn’t believe in unearned satisfaction, that one, even if it’s just a suggestion of what to order at a restaurant.
I’m guessing that comes from her jackass of a father.
“That bloke looks like he’s having more fun than she is,” Heath says, nodding toward Maeve and her wannabe suiter.
He’s right. The guy has his hands on her waist, and they keep sliding lower.
Maeve looks less than thrilled about the arrangement, but she’s the one who agreed to dance with him.
Definitely doesn’t need me to rescue her.
“Maybe you should try again,” Rhett says, nursing his drink. “She looks like she might say yes this time.”
I shoot him a glare. I have no interest in being turned down again, especially not while all of our friends are watching.
Rhett’s brows shoot up. “I’m kidding, mate. Forget I mentioned it.”
I swing my gaze back to Maeve and the fucking asswipe she said yes to, but they’ve disappeared. Pushing off from the bar, I scan the sea of heads. She better not be thinking about leaving with him.
Next thing I know, I’m getting jostled by the people on the dance floor. I move to the last place I saw them, but they’re no longer there. My heart rate is going about twice its normal speed when I finally spot them at the edge of the room.
Maeve has her arms slung around his neck, but she doesn’t exactly look happy. Not that that’s unusual. If you ever see Maeve looking happy, call an ambulance. She’s probably overdosed on something.
I cut through the swaying bodies between us. When I reach them, I clap a hand on the guy’s shoulder. He turns in surprise. A mixture of confusion and irritation spreads across Maeve’s face when she sees me.
“My turn,” I say, keeping my eyes locked on hers.
The wanker doesn’t put up much of a fight, which is lucky for him, because I’m not opposed to pounding him into the pavement outside if I need to. He slinks off, and Maeve scowls at me. “I was ready to quit anyway.”
“Too bad.” I grab her arms and wrap them around my neck.
She bristles and pulls some of the hair at the nape.
I yank her close to me. If she wants to play, I’m more than ready for the game.
The feeling of her against me—god, how do I explain it?
Have you ever touched a live wire? It’s a little like that.
The shock of it runs through my whole body until I can taste the electricity, smell the smoke.
Her waist fits in my hands like it was made to be there.
She’s as cold as an ice cube, but if the heat between us continues, she’ll thaw in no time.
Our faces are close together—there’s no other option with this many people—and I can smell her perfume. Can’t place it, though. I haven’t smelled it on anyone but her, cool and electric like iced champagne but also like silk sheets warmed by the sun. I breathe in deeper to get a better whiff.
Another couple bumps into us, sending Maeve further into my embrace. I’m not mad about the contact, but she looks pissed. She removes her arms from my neck, where they have been hanging with all the enthusiasm of a dead fish. “I’m done,” she says. She moves to walk away, but I grab her hand.
She turns back in surprise, but rather than explain, I lead her toward the side door, the red neon sign above it guiding me through the sea of people.
We push outside, and the cold night air feels good on my flushed skin. But it’s still winter, so she’ll quickly get chilly in that dress, I remind myself.
“What are we doing out here?” she snaps once the sound of the club has been muffled by the door closing.
“You owe me a conversation.”
She barks out a laugh. “I owe you nothing.”
I cross my arms and lean back against the exterior wall of the club. “I could use your help on Monday afternoon.”
The surprise that skitters across her face is satisfying in a primal way. I love nothing more than keeping her on her toes. “With what?” The edge in her voice could cut a vein.
“As my assistant. Unless you’re having second thoughts?”
“Of course not.” She tilts her chin up. “I’ll be there.”
“Perfect,” I say. “May want to rest up this weekend. I intend to fill every minute of those twenty-four hours.”
Her glare sends laser beams into my gut. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“I guess we’ll see about that.” I shrug and make a mental note to come up with things for her to do. I’m not sure I thought we’d make it this far into the challenge. I think I was secretly hoping she’d call it off long before now. But who the fuck am I kidding? Maeve Wilson doesn’t quit.
“Prepare to lose,” she says, a wicked smile curving up the corners of her mouth, “because I certainly don’t intend to.”
“Is that right?” I let my eyes travel the length of her, pretending to be considering something, but in reality just feasting on the look of her.
Have I already mentioned how gorgeous she is? Raven-black hair just brushing her shoulders, tight little body with curves in all the right place, bloodred lips that taste even better than they look—thank god I got to experience that—and sharp eyes that will cut you if you meet them for too long.
She grows more uncomfortable the longer I look, which only makes me increase the intensity of my gaze.
She’s not going to bring up the kiss; I know she’s not.
In her mind, by ignoring it, she can pretend it didn’t happen.
But I’m dying to know if she’s thought about it as much as I have.
I need to know I wasn’t the only one who lost sleep replaying it in my mind.
If it were up to her, we’d continue dodging the issue until we’re dead.
“You know,” I muse, “I’m done with this shit.”
“Terrific. That makes two of us.” She moves to go back inside.
“Not what I meant,” I growl, pressing my hand against the door before she can open it fully. “You’ve been ignoring me.”
She blinks up at me, those huge dark eyes tinkering with my very soul. “This may come as a shock, but not everything is about you.”
I lean down until she’s only inches from my face. “Maybe not, but it sure as hell is about that kiss.”
“That kiss was nothing,” she snaps.
“That kiss was everything,” I say, keeping my eyes peeled for any flicker of emotion. “Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it.”
She sniffs, nose in the air. “I haven’t.” But then there it is. The sign I’ve been waiting for. Her eyes drop to my lips for a millisecond before meeting my gaze again. In that split second, I can read the hesitation in her expression.
I toss back my head and let out a loud, very relieved laugh.
She crosses her arms and glares at me. “What’s so funny?”
I let my smile rest fully on my face, a dog lying in the sunshine after a long winter. “You’re a terrible liar.”