Chapter 4
FOUR
CLIFF
“Remind me again why we're doing this?” I scowls as I kick at a loose floorboard.
Our town’s community center has been turned into a makeshift ballroom. Or, as close to a ballroom as you can get in a place that also masquerades as a BINGO hall, VFW, and Elk’s Lodge.
I’d rather be playing BINGO with the old ladies in town than taking this damn dance class. And they still pinch my cheeks, even though I’m well into my thirties.
I’d also like to find whoever put the idea of an impromptu dance class into Winter’s head. I have a few choice words for them.
Slate smirks as he stretches his arms. “We’re doing this because we love your sister very much.”
“You're the one marrying her.”
“And you're the one who made your parents think they should have another kid.”
I grunt. “I’m pretty sure that had more to do with a Super Bowl win and a missing box of condoms.”
Slate chokes on a laugh. “Don't let Winter hear you say that. She's convinced she was conceived to a Whitney Houston ballad.”
"She probably was," I grumble. “Our mom was going through a Kevin Costner phase.” God knows I saw The Bodyguard probably a hundred times as a small child.
“Which is still less humiliating than this.” I gesture to the line-dancing instructions being scrawled across a whiteboard by a woman in cowboy boots who looks entirely too chipper for this situation.
Across the hall, couples are milling around awaiting direction. An upbeat and twangy song plays over the speakers. I crane my neck to see if there’s any way for me to sneak out the back without alerting Winter after this thing gets started.
Then I see her.
Sophie is standing at the edge of the dance floor. The sundress she’s wearing catches the light, hugging every one of her ample curves. Her hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, and she’s got this easy confidence that makes her glow.
She throws back her head and laughs at something one of the groomsmen says. My frown deepens.
He’s standing a little too close to her for comfort.
My jaw tightens.
I watch them for another beat as two more men sidle up. All of them buddies Slate made during his military career.
Ice floods my veins.
“Excuse me,” I mutter to Slate. “I gotta… take care of something.”
He follows my glare and smirks. “I see that you do. Tell your girl I say, ‘hey.’”
I ignore him as I stalk across the room. When one of the guys tries to brush a lock of hair back from Sophie’s face, I step between them.
“If you’ll excuse me”—I practically growl until he takes a giant step back—“I believe this dance is mine.”
Sophie’s lips part in surprise, but she doesn’t protest as I lead her away.
“Sorry.” I scrunch my nose. “I don’t usually do that. But he was getting a little too close for comfort.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Yours or mine?”
The instructor claps her hands and calls for us to turn toward us, saving me from having to answer. As she goes over the first steps, I place a hand at Sophie’s waist as directed. It’s supposed to be casual—for balance or leading or something.
But the second my palm meets the curve of her hip, I forget every instruction I heard.
“You okay?” Sophie asks when I don’t move as the others start.
“Yeah.” I shake my head. “I was just going over the directions again in my head.”
It’s about as dumb of an excuse as I could make. But Sophie doesn’t seem to find fault with it.
She steps forward, and—breaking the first of the instructor’s lessons—I follow her. I nearly step on her toes more times than I care to admit.
But, sooner than I would’ve expected, my feet fall into rhythm with hers. One-two, three. Her fingers rest lightly on my shoulder, heating the skin underneath my flannel. Her other hand is tucked in mine. Her fingers seem so soft, so delicate against my work-hardened palms.
It’s no wonder I feel clumsy around her.
“Step, together, step, touch!” the instructor calls out again.
Sophie’s hips shift with the beat, her sundress sways, drawing my attention back to her curves. She brushes against me, and my jeans grow painfully taught around the groin.
This is torture. The sweetest, most tempting torture I’ve ever experienced.
When the instructor tells us to dip, I tighten my hold on Sophie and lean her over my arm.
“Look at you.” she laughs. “You’re a natural.”
“I don’t know about that.” My voice is rough as a catch a hint of jasmine. “I’m just trying not to step on your toes.”
“You’re doing great.”
I raise us back upright. We make another turn. Our hands separate, then rejoin as we circle back. She stumbles slightly, laughing as she does, and I catch her by the waist. My fingers linger before sliding back into place.
Our eyes meet.
And everything shifts.
I lean forward. She meets me halfway. Our lips brush. It’s so light, it doesn’t draw attention from anyone else.
But it isn’t enough. Quickly looking over my shoulder, I dance her toward the corner and pull her behind a divider.
Our mouths come together in a crash. This kiss isn’t for the kids. It’s not for show. It’s not even careful.
It’s for me.
It’s for her.
Her mouth opens under mine, and the kiss deepens. She moans into my mouth as her hands slide up my chest. Mine tighten around her waist, digging into those sweet curves that have been torturing me since I first saw her.
Our tongues tangle as the heat of her body presses into mine. I groan as she moves closer, my cock pushing against her belly.
Fuck me, this kiss is something else. But it still isn’t enough. I want more. A lot more than I can take here behind this divider.
She presses against me, letting out the tiniest moan. My pulse rockets. Something dark and needy stirs below the surface. If I don’t step back now, I’ll take her right here. Right now.
We break apart slowly, our breaths coming in hard gasps.
Sophie’s eyes are glazed. Her lips kiss-swollen. She’s stunning.
“Cliff…” she breathes.
“Sophie,” I whisper.
Neither of us says anything more. But once we’ve caught our breaths, we return to the dance floor. I ignore the amused looks Winter and Slate send our way as we find our steps again.
By the time the instructor calls and end to the class, there isn’t a thought in my head or a feeling in my bones that doesn’t involve this woman.
“Wanna grab a drink?” I ask.
“I wish I could. Really,” she says, brushing a hand through her hair. “I have to organize all the bachelorette swag tonight. Every girl in the group sent something different, and I’m putting the gift bags together.”
I don’t want to leave her. Not yet.
“Need help?”
“You want to help with party prep?” Her tone is skeptical but amused.
“I want to help you.” I give her a lopsided smile. “Bath bombs and chocolates and whatever else you have in there.”
“Okay.” Her face lights up. “Okay. Yeah. That would be nice.”
I walk her to the door, our hands brushing as we go, both of us pretending not to notice.
Outside, the air is cooler. Crisp. The sun hangs low over the mountains, casting golden light across the gravel parking lot. Sophie tugs a cardigan around her shoulders and looks up at the sky like she’s trying to memorize it.
“Smells like woodsmoke and wildflowers out here,” she says softly.
I glance at her, at the soft curve of her smile, at the way her fingers toy with the hem of her sleeve. “Better than traffic and coffee breath?”
She laughs, and I swear I feel that sound somewhere in my chest. “You make a compelling argument.”
We linger on the front steps, neither of us ready to call it. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, and her hand brushes mine again.
I glance down at our fingers. “So, about these swag bags… what exactly goes in them?”
She wiggles her eyebrows. “You’ll just have to see.”
“Come on. Give a hint.”
“No way.” She shakes her head.
I lean in. “I have ways of making you talk.”
“I look forward to finding out how.” She steps away and toward Winter’s Jeep, her sundress swaying with every step. “See you soon, mountain man.”
I watch her until she drives around the corner and disappears.
And when I finally turn back toward my truck, my hands are clenched into fists and my chest is tight.
Because I’m in trouble.
And I’d like to get into a lot more of it if she’ll give me the chance.