Page 30 of Fighting Mr. Knight

Jack

My gaze turns to Bonnie as the DJ invites the bridesmaids and groomsmen to join the newlyweds on the dance floor.

With her blonde hair cascading down her shoulders, her striking blue eyes—one slightly bruised and bloodshot—and ridiculously high cheekbones, she looks like a seductive Viking.

A Viking that has been in a fist fight.

Now she’s looking at me like . . . she’s ready for another fight.

That look I can’t quite decipher whether she wants to fuck me or fight me, and I don’t know which I would prefer or in what order.

Walking across the dance floor, I scan her slowly from her feet upwards.

The dress accentuates the definition of her collarbone, an underrated part of a woman’s body, in my opinion. Bonnie has an exceptional collarbone.

Her hand comes up to stroke her neck protectively.

I’m going to enjoy this forced close proximity.

Unlike most other women, it always takes her a little longer to relax in my company. Whether it is stoicism or nerves, I can’t gauge, but she always has a bit of a bite to her tongue. I suspect now it’s related to the pressure of winning theMotor Worksfactory project since she and Nisha seem to freeze whenever they see me at the castle.

“Shall we?” I reach out my hand, and she nods, letting me lead her onto the dance floor. “Can you dance?” I ask.

“Actually, yes,” she says, as if I’ve offended her by even asking. “I took professional lessons with Kate. Can you?”

My hands slide down the smooth fabric on the contour of her back before resting on her waist. “I have a few moves. To play it safe, we can do a simple sway and I can spin you out a few times.”

She eyes me critically. “We really should have agreed on a strategy in advance.”

I smile and pull her flush to me as I relax us into a sway. My mouth comes close to her temple. “I’m sure we’ll figure it out together.” Her head just about reaches my shoulder.

“I hope this is a long song,” I say with intent, not breaking eye contact.

Her teeth latch onto her bottom lip.

Oh, Viking, I’ll have to make a conscious effort to keep this dance PG.

“See? We figured it out,” I say huskily, tilting my head down until our foreheads are nearly touching.

Except we haven’t figured this out at all.

My left foot moves forward, as does hers, and her stiletto lands squarely on my big toe. In fact, with every step I take, Bonnie pulls in the wrong direction, as if in defiance, making it impossible for me to maintain any rhythm.

I search her face, confused and she seems to gain false confidence. The last thing I need.

It’s like watching a new-born calf trying to walk for the first time. All sliding limbs that it doesn’t know how to use, so it slips around the ground, struggling to gain any sort of balance.

Bonnie is bad.

The worst dance partner I’ve ever had.

As she freestyles all over my feet, we transition into a weird fusion between a botched foxtrot and a teenage disco sway. The height difference between us makes it even worse.

A quick glance around the dance floor tells me all eyes are watching us in amusement.

I study her face for any signs of self-awareness.

Holy hell, she actually thinks she’s a good dancer.

---