Page 80 of Drop the Mitts

He clocked her instantly. His eyes took a long, low sweep of her, causing a record-breaking temperature increase beneath her skin. Grace felt a strange surge of power then.

Let him look. Let him want. Because she sure as hell still did.

André nodded toward the bar, then peeled off from the group to grab drinks. He didn’t come straight over. Didn’t make a beeline for her like he used to. No casual graze of her waist. No whisper in her ear.

Grace pasted on a smile and turned back to the table, but the sound of her pulse thrumming in her ears combined with the music made it impossible to hear the conversation. She leaned in, feigning complete and total interest in Delia and Penny’s intense discussion on favourite lubes. Aelin, Ryan’s fiancée jumped in with her take—one brand for the shower, one for the nightstand—and Grace was glad to ride the wave of conversation.

After an hour, she took a quick break to hit the bathroom. When she returned the house band was starting their second set. André was two stools away from Sean, shoulder to shoulder with Brett, tossing back a shot and shaking his head with a grimace. His grin flashed quick and wide.

He looked happy. Relaxed. Like he’d up and gotten over everything that happened between them in Edmonton.

Grace stood abruptly.

“Where are you going?” Rhonda asked.

Grace pointed to the flashing lights on their right and mouthed, “Dance floor.”

She didn’t wait for a response. She just headed to the centre of the floor, shouldering past a group of girls in denim skirts and cowboy boots until she hit the open space.

Her shoulders curled inward as she realized the situation. She stood alone. And yet if she didn’t move, she was going to split at the seams.

The music was loud—twangy guitar over a driving bass—but it didn’t matter. Her body remembered the basics of how to do this. She'd taken a dozen dance classes as a kid, everything from jazz to contemporary to Latin ballroom. Back then, she’d danced because she didn’t want to play soccer, and her parents required her to participate in a sport.

Now?

Her hips caught the beat, and her arms lifted instinctively. She let herself forget about the legal briefs waiting in her inbox. About the court date and therapists and what-if scenarios and the panic clawing at her throat anytime she thought of Jenna handing over Hope.

And then?—

Hands.

Strong. Familiar. Settling low on her hips.

She didn’t have to look to know who it was.

Grace exhaled, allowing André to press in behind her, waiting for him to match her movements. His chest grazed her back, his thighs brushing hers. The rhythm between them shifted and synced.

He leaned in, breath hot against her ear. “You’re trying to kill me.”

Heat flooded her middle. “Is dancing a crime?”

He laughed, low and rough. “The way you do it, it is.”

They moved together, his hand sliding over her thigh, shameless and slow. Grace felt him hard against her, his hand sliding to her waist, guiding her hips as the tempo climbed.

“You’re drunk,” she murmured, leaning back against his chest.

“Just a little buzzed.”

“I don’t think you’d be standing here if you were just a little buzzed.”

“Why is that?” he drawled.

Grace swallowed. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

His hand tensed on her hip. “Self-preservation.”

She closed her eyes, the beat humming through her. “André, my permits came through. I’m leaving in a couple of weeks?—”

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