“Likewise. Now go dance with your groom. You’ve not taken your eyes off him since he walked in.”
Beaming, she returned the kiss to Flynn’s cheek and hurried over to Xander. Flynn himself headed for the bar and Pru. She wasn’t drinking. He had no idea whether that was the norm for her or not. Everyone seemed to just know she’d be the designated driver. Since before they’d left the house, she’d been herding everyone else, making sure nothing was forgotten and everyone had a good time. Even as he approached, he overheard her speaking to Porter, one of Xander’s groomsmen, “Go dance with Maggie before she sneaks away to the bathroom to check in with her office for the umpteenth time. Bonus points if you manage to steal her phone.”
“Don’t have to tell me twice.” He saluted and cut smoothly through the crowd toward his target.
“Still taking care of everyone, I see.”
“A mother’s work is never done.” She clearly meant it as a joke, but he heard something more serious in her tone.
“Ah, but you’re not a mother yet.”
She sipped at her tonic and lime. “Might as well be.”
Which was sign enough that he ought to steer clear. He had rules for himself. But there was something about her that drew him, had him pushing, just a little. “Even so, mothers deserve to have fun themselves.”
“Someone has to take care of everything.” That someone was obviously her. How much of that was because she was the eldest and how much was because she was the sister who’d stayed?
“And who takes care of you?” It was something he’d been wondering since his arrival.
Her gaze flickered with surprise. “I take care of myself.”
Flynn nodded, recognizing an independent woman when he saw one. He’d grown up in a house with two, hadn’t he? The idea of somebody else taking care of her had never even crossed her mind. So he appointed himself—for the night, anyway—to make sure that she had a good time, too. He held out a hand. “Then come take care of me. I find myself without a dance partner.”
“Oh no.” Pru shook her head. “I can’t do any of whatever you and Kennedy just did.”
Flynn just flashed the grin that had a ninety-eight percent success rate. “I’ll go easy on you.” He angled his head, listening as the music changed. “See, there’s something nice and slow.” Which, in reality, was exactly what he’d wanted when asking Pru to dance. “C’mon. You won’t leave a guest on the sidelines, will you?”
“You and I both know that, other than the bride, every woman in this room would be happy to dance with you. I’m pretty sure at least fifty percent of them started fanning themselves when they heard your accent.”
True. American women did seem to fall all over themselves when he spoke. But not Pru. “Ah, but you’re the only one I’m looking at.”
Pink flooded her cheeks and she dropped her gaze.
To solve the issue, Flynn gently extracted the glass from her grip and set it on the bar. She didn’t resist when he tugged her toward the dance floor. He slid his hand to the small of her back and pulled her into his arms, beginning to circle her to the bluesy, country guitar, as somebody sang about a woman and Tennessee whiskey. Pru’s steps were a little stiff, her hold awkward.
“Relax. I won’t bite,” he said.
The fingers on his shoulder flexed, and he noted the pulse hammering in her throat as she lifted her gaze to his. “What if I ask nicely?” Her lips immediately pressed together and her color deepened, as if she hadn’t meant to say that aloud.
Flynn’s blood heated, and he shifted her an inch or two closer, angling his head to speak into her ear. “For you, mo stór, I would gladly do anything you ask.”
A delicious shudder ran the length of her body. What would it be like to dismantle all those walls, stripping away her inhibitions until she came apart for him? The idea of it stirred him far too much.
“Even dishes?”
It was so out of sync with where his mind had gone, he pulled back slightly. “What?”
Pru laughed and her smile punched into him, strumming that internal chord he’d felt in the barn. “You did say anything.”
“So I did.” He didn’t think he’d ever seduced a woman over a sink of dirty dishes. What would that look like?
“What does it mean?”
Her question distracted him from his little fantasy. A good thing, probably, given the crowd. “What does what mean?”
“Mo stór.”
“Ah. It’s Gaelic for my darling.”