Page 14 of Betting Blind
Righting myself, I become acutely aware of a presence at my back, and I whip around, thumping into a solid structure with my heart galloping in my chest. “Jesus, Jack. You scared the hell out of me!”
My hands wind around the tip of the mop handle, and I feel the warmth coming off his body, inches away from my whitening knuckles. My head tilts back to see a touch of amusement etching thin lines around the corners of his eyes. He may be an ass, but if I didn’t know better, I’d think that I’m beginning to grow on the grouch.
“I would say don’t quit your day job, but you may have some serious untapped potential there.” His words fan lightly across my cheekbones as he reaches an arm around me. I follow the movement for a brief moment until our close proximity forces me to face him again. The pounding of blood in my ears becomes erratic, and I’ve got panic on the brain at the thought of him embracing me so intimately.
Am I imagining this? Our bodies are close enough to press together, and his arm is outstretched behind me, but I wouldn’t exactly call it an embrace.
“Maybe I missed my calling,” I mumble.
His light chuckle surprises me, and I struggle to hide my joy at the soft sound. I’m glimpsing a rare side of Jack that I want to bottle up and save for a rainy day. The boyish reaction softens my heart, and I let my smile show, allowing it freedom as I enjoy the sweetness.
“And here I thought being a jackass was your full-time job.” I reach out and shove his shoulder gently. It’s easy to enjoy him like this, and the solitary brow he raises gives me the feeling that he’s enjoying it, too.
I tamper down my reaction to the brief contact of his chest pressed against mine, but my mind runs away from me, inappropriately painting pictures of the two of us tangled together in varying positions.
Jack pulls back with my dance partner’s sopping wet twin, and I almost slap my palm against my forehead.
He was reaching for the mop in the bucket behind me. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
For a moment, neither of us moves. There’s no covering up the direction of my thoughts as my chest rises and falls abnormally. The rush of music from the earbud I’ve forgotten fills my ear, startling me, and Jack’s body becomes rigid, shifting his mood in a matter of seconds. Too late, I realize he mistook my reaction to the music as one of displeasure.
“I’m not a jackass,” he says plainly.
I step around him to the next dry area in need of a good scrub and swipe my mop back and forth over the spot. Having only dated a small—and I mean a minuscule number of men—I have no idea how to play whatever game is going on here. I can’t decide if I should flirt with him or play it cool. Am I the cat or the mouse?
“You know what I mean,” I grumble. “You haven’t exactly been a sweetheart.”
Jack forcefully scrubs his spot on the floor next to me, refusing to answer, and after ten minutes of silence creeps by, I return to my dance party. Usher’s voice sounds in my ear, and I grace Jack with an off-key, music-less rendition. I see him visibly cringe, so I raise my voice and sing louder just for the sake of it.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” He stills his working hands to stop and stare at me.
Closing my eyes and returning my mop to the microphone position, I belt more lyrics in his direction as I run my hand over my body playfully. I pop my eyes open to see his blues bugging out of his head.
He leans his weight against the mop handle, draping a tattoo-covered arm over it lazily, and grins. “Definitely don’t quit your day job.”
“Oh, come on, have a little fun with me,” I tell him, putting away the earbud and turning the volume up on my phone.
“No.”
He tries to turn away from me, but I cross the head of my mop over his. “Oh, I get it. You’re afraid.”
“Of what, dancing?” I raise a brow, and he scoffs. “Hardly.”
“Then prove it. Let’s see what you’re working with,” I say, motioning from the top of his head to his feet.
Jack stares at me blankly, and when I don’t back down, the tiniest shimmy shifts his hips left and right and I gasp.
“Wow.” Offering him a slow clap, I tuck the mop under my arm. “I’m impressed.”
“Oh, there’s plenty more where that came from.”
I laugh. “Oh, yeah?”
With amusement, I watch as this six-foot tall, menacing-looking man shakes his ass before me. He thrusts the long mop handle between his legs, eyeing me as he wraps a leg around it, and I laugh so hard I snort.
“Okay, okay! That’s enough,” I say, covering my eyes and feigning disgust, but what I’ve had the pleasure of watching was anything but repulsive.
I hum through thirty more minutes of floor scrubbing. Having finished my side quicker, I slowly make my way around Jack’s half of the space, careful to stay a step behind as to not redo any spots he’s already cleaned. It becomes seamless for us to work this way, and every so often, I catch the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips.
