Page 20 of Mountain Man in my Stockings
But I played it up, hamming it up for Eve specifically. When I made the queen of hearts appear from behind her ear, her delighted laugh made the whole performance worth it.
"How did you—"
"Magician never reveals his secrets." I finished with a flourish, fanning the deck across the bar top.
The crowd applauded, and Jack called out: "One stocking earned! Choose wisely, Pike!"
I didn't hesitate. Selected a white stocking with red ribbon from the board, then crossed to Eve and slapped it on the counter beside her plate.
"Your turn, baby."
She took it. Her cheeks flushed as she read the slip. "'Choose a partner and dance with no music playing.'"
The background music cut off immediately—my sound guy smiling from his post by the speakers.
Eve glanced around the bar, still fairly crowded despite it being fifteen minutes to closing. Then she looked back at me, eyes challenging.
"Well," she said, standing, "since you're the one who gave me this dare, big man, I'm choosing you."
My heart kicked. "That right?"
"Unless you're scared."
"Not even a little bit."
I came around the bar, took her hand, and led her to the open space in front of the fireplace. The room fell quiet, everyone looking on.
I pulled her close. My hand settled at the small of her back, hers on my shoulder, our other hands clasped between us.
"There’s no beat to dance to," she whispered.
"Then we'll have to create our own."
I started swaying, slow and easy, and she followed. No rhythm but what we created together, no soundtrack but the crackle of the fire and the sound of our breathing.
She fit against me perfectly. The top of her head reached my shoulder, and when she relaxed into me, I felt every place our bodies touched—her hand warm in mine, her waist beneath my palm, the soft press of her against my chest.
"You're good at this," she murmured.
"Just following your lead."
"Liar. You're definitely leading."
"Maybe we're both leading."
Her laugh was soft, intimate, just for me. We turned in lazy circles, and I became aware of everything—the scent of her shampoo, the way her fingers tightened on my shoulder when I pulled her closer, the hitch in her breathing that matched my own.
The bar, the crowd, the world—it all faded. Just her. Just this. Just the steady build of want that had been growing since she walked through the door.
"Deacon," she whispered.
I looked down. Her eyes were dark, pupils wide, lips slightly parted.
"Yeah?"
"What happens now?"
The question hung between us, loaded with possibility.
