We order cheeseburgers and beers, a classic pair. It ain’t quite Mack burger level diner grub, but Grady’s got himself a good cook. While we’re eating, this country rock group shows up, and the music gives the soft purple lights shining down a whole new pulse.
“I need to dance,” Tory says, scooting to the edge of the booth.
“You danced all morning,” I tease. “Didn’t you get it out of your system then?”
“Not with a partner!” She’s already pulling at my hand.
Whatever else is on my mind, I’m not rude enough to leave a lady high and dry.
I let her lead us to the floor and pull her close.
Big surprise, she’s as graceful moving to the soft twangy guitar notes and lilting voices as she is doing her artsy thing in the barn.
Just as sexy, too.
Her body sways against mine, heating my blood, turning my relentless dick to granite.
With a glowing smile, she transitions seamlessly into the next song with a fast-paced western beat.
The music is uplifting. I can’t help but laugh as she spins, swinging off the floor with her hands on my shoulders, then flashing me a saucy wink as she lands.
I catch her hand and give her a whirl.
Of course she does it perfectly, clicking a heel on the floor. She sashays around me like the ghost she is.
It’s actually fun.
I keep up with her moves, but I’ll never be the match she deserves for her skills. Her grace in each and every move draws plenty of attention. Especially mine.
It’s impossible not to be in awe. The applause erupting when the song ends is more for her than the band.
She doesn’t even notice as she slides up, gives me a quick kiss, and asks, “One more?”
Though I’ll never match her skills, I love seeing her happy. So I grasp her hand, twirl her beneath my arm, and pull her close.
“For you, Peach, I’ll manage,” I say with a grin.
Then I dip her in my arms and, without giving one damn who’s watching, kiss her through the start of the next song.
19
You Goat Me Wrong (Tory)
Just when I thought I couldn’t love all things dancing more than I already do, Quinn takes it to a whole new level.
Dancing with him in this nowhere bar with ten shades of revolving purple disco lights is better than performing in any show. Whether the songs come fast or slow, his movements are perfect.
I think I could dance with this man for the rest of my life.
Somehow, he even knows how to line dance.
Something I freaking love and never got a chance to try out except in private.
Before you can shout yeehaw! we’re stomping, twisting, clapping, and clicking our heels in perfect sync, and I’m laughing so hard my sides hurt.
It almost feels wrong, having this much fun.
And I can’t stop smiling, even as the song ends.
Not when he envelops me in one of those big spontaneous hugs from the sexiest man alive.
“Shit, I need a break,” he says, wiping his brow. “You’re wearing me out, woman.”
I giggle because I know better. He’s being modest.
His stamina is impeccable.
I’ve experienced it in bed every single night since we became more than just roomies and friends.
“Fine,” I say, giving him a teasing eye roll. “We’ll sit the next one out.” As we approach our booth, I give his arm a squeeze. “I’m going to run to the ladies’ room. Grab me another beer, please.”
“Will do.”
My heart does a double somersault at his parting wink.
He’s so handsome in the simple checkerboard flannel shirt he’s wearing tonight with jeans, it isn’t fair. I have to remind myself it’s not all roses.
The last couple weeks have been too easy, even with the drama.
I’m waiting for the other shoe to drop, frowning as I enter the restroom.
How can I call it paradise when I sense how worried Quinn is over this creepy Pickett thing?
Not for himself, of course, but for me.
Oh, he tries to keep it normal, but the tension rolls off him in waves whenever we’re together.
He never lets me out of his sight when we’re doing the simplest things around the house or heading into town to pick up food.
Clearly, it’s wearing on him. My presence, my vulnerability, frays him. And so does the apparent lack of progress with heading this off before a dangerous killer shows up on his doorstep.
I just wish there was something I could do to help.
I’m not even sure he sleeps at night when we’re done wearing each other out.
Every time I wake up, he’s gone, whether it’s the middle of the night or early the next morning.
Talk about unhealthy. He might be Hercules reincarnated, but a sleep debt the size of an elephant catches up with everyone sooner or later.
I almost wish something would happen.
This limbo crap is killing him.
We haven’t seen that ominous blood-red Chevy since our one-time run-in.