“People are going to think I’m your…your…” I couldn’t say it. It sounded wrong and filthy, even in my head.

“Fuck buddy?” he provided with an easy smirk, probably enjoying watching me change colors in my seat like a billboard sign.

I rolled my eyes. “Yes.”

“You’re welcome. Your shares will skyrocket after our six months are up. Now, let’s dance.”

I looked around us, feeling my forehead dampening, my heart rate accelerating. I didn’t want to get up and show him what a horrific dancer I was. Hunter stretched his open palm in my direction, leaving me no choice but to accept it.

And still, I didn’t.

“Am I going to stand here waiting for long? Asking for a friend called my ego,” he noted.

I felt my throat bobbing, but couldn’t swallow my anxiety.

Saggy Sailor paired with Boston’s most eligible billionaire.

Most days, I could pretend we were just two randoms sharing a space. Now that it was clear we’d arrived together, I felt everybody ogling me, trying to find out what Hunter saw in me.

Nothing, I wanted to scream at them. He sees nothing, because there is nothing. His father is twisting his arm.

“Sailor?” Hunter frowned, obviously no longer amused by my stalling.

I mumbled something underneath my breath.

“Come again?” he asked.

I repeated myself, this time a breath louder.

“Can’t hear you.”

“I can’t dance!” I threw my arms in the air, frustrated. I blushed so hard my scalp burned. The live band swallowed my yelp, but I still wanted to die. “I don’t go to parties. I don’t mingle. I don’t dance. I don’t know how to…how to…”

“Be a normal human?” Hunter asked unhelpfully.

I shot him a dirty look. He laughed, taking both my hands and yanking me up. I practically dragged my heels as he pulled me to the dance floor by force.

My level of mortification seemed foreign, yet somehow familiar. I hated myself for never attending any parties, for not being prepared for this, even though I was only partly to blame. Not many people wanted to hang out with the shy, awkward daughter of the guy who allegedly did the dirty work of Boston’s elite. At the rare times I was invited to parties after the Saggy Sailor ordeal, I always passed. It was guys like Hunter who scared me the most—the beautiful, popular, athletically accomplished creatures who looked down on me. I knew they were waiting for the slightest sign of weakness to leap and tear me to shreds.

The minute we got to the dance floor, I turned around and made a run for the entrance—literally dashed for the door. Not my most mature moment, granted, but escaping the situation trumped all else. Before I could build momentum, Hunter scooped me by my waist, like I was a toddler, and placed me right in front of him.

“Sailor,” he said gravely, but there was a hint of humor there, too.

“Let me go! I don’t want to dance. It wasn’t a part of our agreement.”

My vision blurred at the edges, and I realized I was in a real state of panic. I’d just ruined my entire badass façade with his trashed room, my archery…everything. Where were Belle and Persy? What was happening? Why couldn’t I stop shaking?

A quick glance around confirmed my worst fear. Most people who sat at their tables or swayed on the dance floor were glancing at us curiously, whispering to each other about the unfolding drama I’d created. I was becoming the main attraction.

“Sailor,” Hunter repeated, poised, his hand circled around my arm. I was tiny and gaunt against his tall, muscular frame. Insignificant in every sense of the word.

“Let go of me!”

“Sailor.”

“What, for the love of everything holy?” I pressed my fists to my eye sockets. I was never going to be able to look him again. And he was definitely not going to cash in on that kiss.

“Listen. It’s a slow song.” He hooked his fingers at the nape of my neck, pressing his thumbs just below my eyes, peeling my hands away. He held me like I was a porcelain doll. Fragile and beautiful and rare.

“Take a deep breath, open your eyes, and look at me,” he purred, his tone steady, almost lulling.

Somehow, I obliged. When my eyes fluttered open, I was momentarily taken aback by how sympathetic and sweet he looked, frowning down at me, his brilliant gray-blues studying me.

“This part is crucial, so listen carefully: nobody knows how to dance unless it’s professionally. Nobody. But especially white people from Boston. We are notoriously bad at dancing. If there were Razzie Awards for dancing, my bathroom would be full of statues.”

I bit my lip, stifling a giggle. “Nonsense. You go to lots of parties.”

“Dancing is not my preferred cardio when I attend them, trust me.”

I chuckled bitterly. I glanced around, or at least tried to, but he kept my head screwed in place, palming both my cheeks.

Tags: L.J. Shen Boston Belles Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net