Page 40 of Broken Headboards
“See something you like?” he asks.
“Nothing worth losing my sleep over,” I say back.
“Ouch,” he chuckles. “You’re a mean one.”
“The absolute worst, remember?” I remind him.
The music turns up.
Austin begins to move. Christ, where the hell did he learn to dance like this?
“The absolute worst,” he repeats, slowly pulling me up. Then, he stretches his arm to the side and some bystander throws him a red rose.
What the hell?
I didn’t sign up for this.
“No way.”
“Oh, yes,” he grins, bringing the rose up to my lips and leaving me no choice but to bite on the stem.
“I’ll fucking gut you for this,” I hiss once more, clamping my teeth so tight my brain rattles inside my skull.
“Chill out, will ya?” He smiles, then gives me a wink.
Then he gets serious.
His footwork goes beyond anything I’ve ever seen, and he leads me across the room effortlessly.
Holy shit.
The once packed dance floor has been cleared, and we’re the only two people dancing. Everyone else is standing around in a semi-circle around us, completely slack jawed as they see us tear up the dance floor.
Oh, well, what can I do?
They asked me to tango, so I’m gonna tango.
Pushing Austin back, our bodies finally separated, I throw the rose against his chest and start circling him. My gaze is a teasing and devilish one, and each step I take is precise and calculated. He mirrors my movements easily, adding a masculine cadence to his footing.
Well, I’m impressed.
Move aside, Antonio Banderas.
As the song picks up the pace again, we rush into each other’s embrace.
“Didn’t know you could tango, Austin,” I say to him.
“There’s a lot I do that you don’t know about, baby,” he says back to me, eyeing me.
As he twirls me around, I pull a fast one on him and raise one leg up, lacing it against his right one. “You’re too full of yourself,” I say.
“Am I?”
The glint in his eyes leaves me wondering, but he untangles his leg from mine and dashes across the floor. Only when I’m back in his arms does he continue.
“I’m not the one who got confident,” he says.
“What do you mean?” I ask.
