Page 25 of Revival

“Where are you from?”

The question is shouted above the throbbing bass in the resort club.

Humidity sticks my hair to the back of my neck. The floor is packed with people dancing beneath a powerful white strobe.

At the inquiry, I open my eyes, slowing my body from its solo dance. “I’m American.”

“You’re very pretty.” He grins, his mouth bracketed by a long dimple on either side. His teeth seem to glow in the strobe against his tawny skin.

Handsome.

I remember what Delaney said on the plane about all the fish. It’s only the first night here, and I’ve already been chatted up by three men. Nothing memorable, but the conversation was nice. My hometown is so small that I rarely get to enjoy the company of someone I didn’t grow up with.

The drinks I’ve kept flowing have helped me loosen up too.

“Thank you.” I give him a slow once-over as I bite my straw. He really is cute, but he’s young. I probably have…eightishyears on this cutie pie and cougar I amnot.

His hand settles on my hip, and with a gentle tug, he brings our bodies closer. The tips of our toes touch. He dips his mouth to my ear.

“Can I dance with you?” The heat of his breath tickles my neck.

His Italian accent washes over me, just loud enough to be heard above the music, and I close my eyes. I’m inclined to say no. I’m forty-one, for crying out loud.

I’m sensible and responsible. I run my own practice, and I’ve singlehandedly raised my son. I’m not impulsive or reckless. I don’t go out with the intention of dancing with strange men.

It might be the drinks, or it might be the fact I find myself single and trying to distract myself from the pain of that fallout, but I relax and swivel my hips a tiny bit.

What’s one harmless dance?

“I’m not much of a dancer.”

He bites his lip. “That’s not what it looked like to me.”

“Have you been watching me?”

“Yes,” he answers without hesitation. “You’re good.”

“Hmm.” I sip my margarita, licking salt from the rim. “I’m Cortney.”

“Davide.”

The music is too loud to continue conversing. I smile and nod, loosening up and moving a bit more. Davide spins me into his chest before twirling me back out. My margarita sloshes over the edge of my glass.

“Careful!” I laugh and lick the mess from my sticky fingers. Raising what’s left of the drink above my head, I close my eyes and dance.

The hand on my hip doesn’t move, but he also doesn’t let go. He’s not even inching toward the bare skin of my back. I get the impression he’s respecting my space. My guard lowers at the unexpected chivalry.

What a gentlemanly fish.

I should tell him that.

My lashes flutter against the harsh strobe. I raise a hand, blocking the light to find Davide’s eyes.

Instead, I discover a pair of furious blue ones behind his right shoulder.

“If you like how your hands work,” Spencer growls, “I suggest you remove them.”

Goose bumps ripple down my arms from his snarly tone alone, and a shiver sizzles down my spine. When is the last time a man’s voice made me feel likethat?

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