I lost myself in the sultry sounds of the singer’s voice, the raspy tenor that pulsed and vibrated within the band’s melodies, long after Echo had thrown in the towel and joined our friends at our booth in the private balcony above the stage.
And then red-hot reality jolted me right to the present when a man’s hand found my hip.
“I’m a married woman!” I snapped, balling my fist. “Take your hand off me.” When he didn’t respond to my loud and clear command, I whirled. My father raised me with awareness, and I knew I was a tiny thing, knew I had one chance to get a good hit in, and buy me time to get to my girls.
My fist was stopped, gently and easily.
Cannon.
“Glad to see you know how to defend yourself against monsters like me,” he said, relinquishing his hold on my fist, his dark eyes slightly glazed with drink, likely the mirror of mine.
“You’re not a monster,” I snapped. “And even if you think yourself one, you’d be my monster, so I have no need of defense against you.”
“You sure about that, Princess?”
I nodded. “What are you doing here?”
He motioned over his shoulder, where Connell, Logan, Lukas, Nathan, and Axel all stood, sheepish looks on their faces. “Guess our friends think alike?”
I pursed my lips at him, the alcohol in my blood making me extra sassy. “Figured you’d be living it up at some strip club.”
Cannon planted me with a look that screamed you know better.
I chewed on my bottom lip, all those emotions and doubts I’d spent the evening burying doing their best to claw their way to the surface. “What do we do now?” I asked, unable to hide the sadness in my tone.
Cannon stood there so long I wasn’t sure he’d answer, or if he even had one.
“Dance with me?” he finally asked, hand offered between us.
I took it without hesitation. “Always,” I said.
He positioned my hand on his chest, right in the center of it, and left it there to snake his hands around my waist. We swayed to the rhythm, the band switching to a slow, hauntingly beautiful song that seeped into my bones. I lost myself in Cannon’s embrace, in his touch, in the way he controlled my body—spinning me in or out, drawing me closer only to push me away again. Back and forth, the dance mounted, as did my racing heart.
I felt like we’d been doing this dance since our night in Vegas, and now it was all coming to a head.
He tucked me against him again as the song wound down, his eyes fixated on mine.
Everything in me narrowed to that gaze, to the intensity behind it. To the unspoken words between us. The other dancers on the floor didn’t exist, nor did our friends no doubt about to discover each other in the same location, nor the other bar patrons getting their fill of drink and food and fun.
Nothing but Cannon and me.
He leaned down, his cheek against mine, his lips at my ear—
“I lied!” Echo said, darting to my side, drawing both our attention. “One more stop,” she giggled as she tugged on my arm. “There is no way you can end your single life in your husband’s arms! I’ve got another place! Shoo!” She waved Cannon away, and I couldn’t help but laugh as Logan came up behind him and grabbed him in a headlock.
Cannon let him pull him away.
So I let my friends.
And once again lost myself to the abyss and blissful ignorance, promising myself that—after many more drinks—everything would make sense tomorrow.
17
Cannon
My head fucking hurt. Sure, it was my fault, and I accepted that, but combining a huge hangover with a ridiculous amount of sun had my brain throbbing.
I yanked my sunglasses down and tried to listen to what Logan was saying next to me.
“So if we start our eighteen holes by eleven, we’ll definitely make it back in time for the rehearsal.”
I looked at him like he’d lost his mind. “I’m not playing golf.”
He raised his eyebrows. “The set of clubs with that caddy over there seems to suggest otherwise.”
I’d agreed to come out here and putt around on this stupid fucking green like I actually gave a shit if the ball found the hole, but I wasn’t signing up for a full round of golf. No way in hell. I wasn’t one of those douchebags over there with their neat little polos and green vests.
Like he’d heard my thoughts, head douchebag, Michael lifted his head from his perfect putt and high-fived his equally douchey friend. It was the practice green for God’s sake, not the fucking Olympics.
“Seriously,” Logan muttered, having seen the same thing.
“Right? It’s not like anyone’s even trying to take the ball from them. No goalie. No skates. Where’s the goddamned challenge?”