Page 47 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"Like a gazelle, darling. He had to chase her down the hall."

Ariana turns to me. “You chased her?"

"I didn’t chase her," I mutter. "I—walked briskly."

"With the PowerPoint in hand," Grams declares.

Ariana actually leans into her for support as she wheezes out a laugh. "Oh, this is gold. I need to see this presentation."

"It’s classified," I say flatly.

"My dear," Grams tells Ariana, "if I ever find it, I’ll send it to you."

"Connor," Ariana says, still breathless, "this might be the best thing I’ve ever heard."

“That’s enough of that,” I practically shout as the opening notes of a waltz fill the room. “Last time I checked, this event had a dance floor. And a dance floor is for dancing. Right, Ariana?"

She's fighting laughter, but takes my offered hand. "Don't think this gets you out of explaining the prom incident.” Her voice lowers so only I can hear. “Or that wedding video.”

I pull her onto the dance floor. "I thought we agreed not to discuss Vegas."

"No, you agreed. I'm still collecting evidence." Her hand slides to my shoulder as we begin to move. "For business reasons, of course."

"Of course." I draw her closer. "Nothing to do with how good I look in sequins."

"Purely PR-related research." But her breath catches as my hand spreads across her lower back. "Though that cape you were wearing that night was... interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Professionally speaking."

We're barely moving now, just swaying together as the music washes over us. Her body fits against mine like it was designed to be there, like every curve and angle was precisely created to drive me insane.

And Ariana isn’t withdrawing from me.

She should be. Should be pushing back with some sharp remark, reminding me that this is a bad idea, that I’m a bad idea. But she isn’t.

Her hand is in mine, her other resting lightly on my shoulder, and she’s following my lead like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

She’s trusting me.

I don’t know what the hell to do with that.

“I don’t waltz,” she mutters, but there’s no bite in her voice. Just the faintest hint of breathlessness.

I smirk, guiding her into an easy turn. “Lucky for you, I do.”

She huffs, rolling her eyes like I’ve said something ridiculous, but she doesn’t step away. Doesn’t pull back.

Doesn’t let go.

I keep her close, probably closer than I should, but she doesn’t call me on it. She just watches me, brown eyes sharp, like she’s trying to figure something out.

“You know,” she remarks, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this relaxed.”

“You’ve seen me after three too many whiskeys.”

“Is that the secret? I need to get you drunk to see you loosen up?”

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