Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

“I did too. Still can’t get over the fact that my friend and your brother are not only head over heels in love, but having a baby together. Small world.”

“I told you. Feels star-crossed to me.”

Eva takes another sip. Looks down at the bar.

“What?” I ask, feeling a twist inside my chest. Shit, am I coming on too strong? I’m not drunk, not yet, and I’m definitely not sloppy. I’m only trying to be honest. Screw games or playing it cool. That stuff is for spineless assholes.

It’s just been so long since I’ve done this. Since I’ve felt this. Anything close to this level of interest and arousal.

If there’s anything being a venture capitalist has taught me, it’s that you shouldn’t let shit that feels right slip through your fingers.

Then again, maybe that’s a lesson I should’ve learned a while ago. Before I let Eva go the first time.

Eva shakes her head, eyes moving to meet mine. “Nothing. We’d just—Ford, c’mon. You and me? We’d never work now.”

That flare ignites into a full-blown fire.

“Why not?”

“Because,” she says with a laugh. Like the answer is the most obvious thing ever. “Difficult to forget what a jackass you were the first time we dated. And things are different now. We’re different.”

“Well, yeah. But to your point, isn’t that a good thing?”

But before she can reply, the opening strains of “Pony” by Ginuwine pulse through the bar. Eva’s eyes go wide. Her lips move into a smile against the mouth of her beer.

“Dude. We can’t not dance to this song. C’mon,” she says, tossing a couple bills onto the bar.

I wanna pick her brain. Tell her never to call me “dude” again. Push her on why, exactly, being different from our college-aged selves makes us incompatible as adults. Because I’m digging this, and even though we’ve only been together for all of a couple hours, I already know I want to see her again. Tomorrow. As soon as she’ll let me.

But I also don’t want to come off as a possessive creeper. I figure—hope—we’ll have plenty of time to talk later.

I’ll have plenty of time to plead my case when some of the best R&B ever made isn’t playing.

So I follow her onto the dance floor. She raises her arms as she cuts a route through writhing bodies. We’re not the only ones who noticed the music is getting better; lots of other people are pouring onto the floor, and it’s getting crowded.

Not that I mind. We find a spot in a far corner, close to the DJ. The bass is so loud I feel its thump in my sternum. Despite the fan blowing air nearby, it’s hot as hell. I’ve got my jacket draped over my forearm. I lay it over the back of a nearby booth. Hope it’s there when we’re done—this just happens to be one of my favorite custom-made suits.

Then Eva is turning toward me, and we’re suddenly very close. Her breasts brush against my chest, but she doesn’t stop moving. She’s smiling, biting her bottom lip. Furrowing her brow while she mouths the lyrics. Dancing with the same confident rhythm she had when we first met.

Eyes on mine the whole time. Egging me on.

Keep up if you can, they tell me. She grabs me by the tie and loosens the knot.

“Don’t write a check you can’t cash,” I tease.

In reply, Eva turns around and grinds her ass into my groin. Clutching my tie over her shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” I groan.

It must be loud enough for her to hear me, because she shoots me a look over her shoulder. “Too much?”

Draining the rest of my beer, I set it on a nearby ledge and then I put my hands on her hips. Give her a rough yank toward me, guiding the sweet roll of her ass as I begin to move, too.

“Never,” I say in her ear. “I can keep up.”

“Show me.”

The whiskey and the beer and the freedom hit me all at once. I’m wearing a suit, my hair carefully parted and combed in responsible-corporate-citizen style. Tattoos mostly covered up. Phone on vibrate in my pocket just in case my sitter calls.

On the outside, I’m about as square as they come.

But I go to town anyway. I make a conscious decision not to think about emails, or how Bryce is running out of socks which means it’s time for laundry, or my super early Saturday morning wakeup call in the form of my daughter calling my name from down the hall.

I make the decision not to think at all. I just go with the beat, losing myself to the feel of Eva’s body moving against mine. The boom of the music.

The beat of my heart inside my chest.

Eva screams—literally screams, jumping into the air—when LL Cool J’s “Doin’ It” comes on. I laugh. She turns around and loops her arms around my neck. Eyes on mine, she starts to really move, curling her hips in tight arcs. Side to side, back to front.