Page 46 of The One Night Dash
I roll my eyes and slip my phone back from my clutch, thumb hovering over the heart, and tap it before sending a text.
Me
There are good ones out there, B. Guys who laugh too loud, who are smarter than they look, who don’t need the spotlight to matter. You’ll find yours.
I stare at the screen, then add
Me
Until then, read. Boys are best in books anyway.
She hearts my message and sends a picture of a book stack on her desk, but it’s blurry, and I can’t see what they are!
Ituck my phone away and fully turn in time for the toasts.
They all blur together, but Louie and Lauren are grinning at the punchlines, champagne glasses clinking in perfect unison. I clap, I smile, I sip, I feel Dash’s eyes on me,and I drink some more.
The first dance follows, and Dash stands and pulls my chair out.
Together, with the Island of Misfit Toys, we make our way to surround the dance floor where the newlyweds begin swaying under a spotlight to “A Thousand Years.”
Then, right as we all start clapping politely, the music screeches into a remix of Justin Timberlake’s “Can’t Stop the Feeling.”
“What in the hell is going on here?” Dash laughs as the bridal party storms the floor.
It’s like a flash mob, everyone snapping into a routine. Step, clap, grapevine, body roll, and repeat.
“How long do you think they worked on this?” Dash asks.
I laugh. “I’m guessing as soon as the engagement was announced.”
The guests eat it up, phones high, everyone cheering.
“It’s kind of cute,” I admit, against my better judgment.
“Hemingway is watching this from somewhere and demanding a refund,” Dash mutters.
The song ends to roaring applause, and then the DJ’s voice booms over the speakers, “All right, everyone, let’s get out here and join the newlyweds!”
The opening notes of“Lucky”by Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat float sweet and soft through the speakers.
Before I can plot an escape, Dash offers his hand. “Come on.”
“Dash—”
He hauls me onto the dance floor, his grin pure mischief. “This is gonna happen, Pembrooke. And no matter how much you beg, I am not putting out tonight. I’m not a first date kind of guy.”
“You are nuts.”
“Accurate.” He slides his hand to my waist as he pulls me into the sway of the music.
I give in far too easily. My palms find his shoulders—solid, warm, impossibly muscular. Every inch of him feels solid, strong, and warm. He feels … comfy.
I try to remind myself this is Dash Sterling, hockey god, professional flirt, heartbreaker-in-waiting. But my body doesn’t seem to care.
His thumb moves in small circles at my side, barely there but enough to send shivers racing down my spine. His cologne is nice, something expensive, I assume, but not overpowering. My cheek brushes against the rough edge of his jaw as the music continues, and I let myself lean in.
I should want this to end. I should want the song to wrap up so I can escape back to the safety of the corner table. Farther even, to outrun all the things he has said that any woman would want to believe. But I don’t want to,not even a little.
