by K. K. Allen
When we reach an empty space on the dance floor, he turns and pulls me close to his body. If I weren’t so distracted by everything Zachary Ryan, I would attempt to resist him—or at least cross my arms across my chest and make him apologize for laughing at me earlier.
But who am I kidding? I’m partially to blame for this. For the past month, we flirt, we laugh, we poke fun at each other, and then when he has me all flustered, we part ways. So far it’s been frustrating, but safe.
I’m not sure what’s changed.
“Well, look who’s making a statement. Fashionably early suits you, Zachary Ryan. But I’m afraid your fanfare hasn’t arrived yet.” I give him a dramatic bat of my lashes. “Your appointment with Chloe isn’t until eleven.”
Forming an overly exaggerated pout, I attempt to distract him from my efforts of blindly clicking the mouse, fumbling to minimize the open window of my computer screen.
He isn’t fooled. I swear he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since he walked through BelleCurve’s main doors, but his expression wears all the conviction he needs to torment me. He already saw.
“Plants vs. Zombies, huh?” He struts closer, straightens his arms, and wraps his thick fingers over the edge of the counter. “The water levels are the hardest.”
I clear my throat, fighting a blush while darting a look at my screen where my favorite game is prominently displayed. There’s no point in hiding it now. The executives are at a conference in New York and everyone else who matters is already in meetings. Zach wasn’t supposed to arrive for another thirty minutes.
I quickly tap on the computer’s sleep icon anyway, fighting the heat that rushed through my body the moment his tall and wide frame pushed through the glass doors. Am I embarrassed to be caught messing around on the job? Sure. But more than anything, I’m thinking Zachary Ryan should come with an alert signal so everyone can prepare for his arrival. Or maybe he should carry a fire extinguisher to blast away the heat he leaves behind his every move.
Yeah. That.
His looks are off the Richter scale, but it’s those big, blue eyes that speak directly to my ovaries and capture my attention whenever he’s near.
Folding my arms on the desk, I try to pretend I’m not affected by the hard lines of his jaw shielded by a layer of closely shaven stubble or the light brown of his hair that’s begging for a rough comb-through of my fingers.
“I’m on a cigarette break.”
His face twists with disappointment. “Monica Stevens smokes?”
“Of course not, but good to know that would have been a problem for you.” The corners of my mouth turn up into a full-blown smile.
Ignoring my insinuation, he leans into the reception counter. “Funny girl. Humor me. Why do you need a smoke break if you don’t smoke?”
I shrug as if the answer is obvious. “Smokers are rewarded with breaks throughout the day. That’s discrimination to nonsmokers. Nonsmokers must demand equal rights.”
A throaty chuckle passes his lips, making it hard to not stare directly at them and imagine how well they’d fit with mine. “I’m sure your fellow nonsmokers would be proud of your advocacy.”
“Oh, they would be. Aren’t you?” My cheeks lift before I can stop them.
“Am I proud of you?” There’s a twitch of his lips before he speaks again. “That depends.”
Tilting my head, I have to bite my bottom lip to keep the ridiculous smile on my face from gaining wattage. “Depends on what?”
He nods to my computer screen. “Show me your strategy.”
My jaw drops in mock horror. “You can’t have my secrets. We barely know each other.”
With eyes locked on me, he stares a little too long. “If you won’t give me your secrets, I’ll find them out, Monica Stevens. Trust me.” And then he stealthily moves around the counter.
Something stirs in my belly, but I push the feeling aside. He’s on my side of the desk before I can come up with a retort, but he doesn’t attack me for my computer like I expect. Instead, he pulls up the stool in the corner of my workstation and sits beside me.
“C’mon, let’s see this. I’ve got”—he glances at his watch—“twenty-five minutes to kill before my meeting. If you can’t impress me with your zombie killing skills, I might have to file a formal complaint with your manager.”
“My manager?” I level him with my eyes. “I work for the CEO, and she loves me.”
“She loves me more.”
Caught in the undertow of his crystal blue eyes, I don’t doubt it. Tearing my gaze away, I swallow and wake up the monitor. “Sandra isn’t here this week, so that will be a challenge for another day.”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “Looking forward to it.”
I lose my train of thought when Zach’s free palm grips my waist and gently guides me toward him until I’m mere inches from his body. He’s watching me intently, like I’m the football he’s in possession of tonight. Never taking his eyes off the ball. I guess I don’t mind. Zachary is passionate in every sense of the word. He’s someone who means every gesture, every look, every syllable—and right now, he’s studying me as if he’s mapping out his next play.
As he moves us around the floor with progressively advanced steps, I’m both impressed and amused. He’s observing me, waiting for me to break, for me to miss a step. But I don’t. I won’t.
Zachary Ryan doesn’t know it yet, but he’s just met his match on the dance floor. Just because I don’t carry a deep southern drawl doesn’t mean I didn’t put in my time. I know every line dance, I can manage a horse with ease, and I sure as hell know my way around a shooting range. Looking at and listening to me, you wouldn’t guess I’m a country girl at heart. I’ve learned to hide it well since leaving Rockwall, Texas, and my love for stilettos trumps my love for my embroidered leather cowboy boots. Most days.
I’m thoroughly disappointed when the song transitions to a slow one, and it’s not because of the tempo change. I was just starting to enjoy this.
One dance. My words. Is it too late to take them back?
He must be thinking the same thing because both of his hands are on my hips now, and his grip only tightens, but not in a way that hurts. It feels … good to be possessed like this.
“That wasn’t a full song. I get another one.” His voice is low but commanding, forcing me to pretend that his grin doesn’t ignite the wick below my waist.
I should say no.
“That’s only fair.”
My arms slide up his navy blue suit jacket and over his shoulders until I’m clasping my fingers behind his neck, my eyes never leaving his. Zachary is nearly a foot taller than me, and I like that I feel small in his massive arms.
Who would want to let this man out of their sight? A true southern boy living in the Emerald City is a rare find. You don’t find charm like this everywhere you go. But he fits in well here, better than most, blending in easily with the city slickers in their flashy suits and designer denim.
Hell, I fit in well too, but every now and then I’ll hear something in Zach’s tone that brings me back to my life growing up in Texas, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. There’s a reason I moved away from the small-town life and found my home in the city of Bellevue, just across the lake from Seattle. And it’s not something I like to think about.
“You can dance.” Surprise is evident in his voice, and the crinkle between his brow tells me he just might be impressed too.
“You’re an excellent lead.” It’s the truth, and it earns me a smile as his hands move from my waist to the small of my back. After many months of greeting Zach when he’d arrive at BelleCurve, showing him from one room to the other, serving him cold waters, buying his catering, and booking his appointments with our staff, it’s a little hard to believe that I’m in his arms now. “You’re not the only one with some country in this joint, you know?”
His eyes widen at my confession. I hadn’t planned on telling him about my roots. It�
�s not something I talk about, so people just assume I’m from around here. “Rockwall, Texas,” I answer before he can even ask.
“No way. Did you drop your twang on your way to the city?”
I laugh. “You’re one to talk.”
His smile grows bright. “My momma told me I’d lose it the moment I stepped foot over here. It didn’t happen that quickly, but being surrounded by a bunch of Neanderthals did the trick eventually.” He winks.
“Mine wasn’t hard to drop once I moved here.” Especially since I tried to drop it, leaving everything I possibly could behind me.
“Well, look at that. I feel right at home now. I guess I saved the best for last.” He presses his lips together as his eyes lock on mine. It takes me a minute to realize he’s referring to me being his dance partner.
“Not how I look at it,” I say, shaking my head. “It doesn’t feel so good to always be the last one picked for a team. Not that you would know the feeling.”
“Oh, I know the feeling. Did you miss my speech?”
I shiver in response, because his speech tonight brought everyone to tears. I don’t think I’ll ever forget his experiences with bullying.
“All right, then.” I shake off the distraction, putting my challenge face back on. Because this is what we do well. We spar. We flirt. We laugh. “Don’t think I haven’t seen you dance with every other girl in here tonight.”
His chest expands, and he seems to grow taller. “So, you’ve been watching me.”
I shake my head. “It’s kind of hard to miss a two-hundred-thirty pound, six-foot-three NFL player and a giggling, doe-eyed girl twirling across the dance floor.”
“Tell me, why aren’t you all giggly and doe-eyed? You’ve obviously got my trading card memorized.” He suctions me in, the small gap between us vanishing as I’m now pressed flush against his chest.
It takes a second to adapt to the hard body melded with my soft one.
Deep breaths, Monica. Hold it together.
“I suppose those girls felt special that you asked them to dance.”
His lip curls. “And you?”
“Don’t.”
His smirk grows into a full-blown smile. “Hmm. Well, you should. Just to set the record straight, the music only started thirty minutes ago, and you’re the only one I’ve asked to dance. Those other girls asked me. It would have been rude for me to say no.”
Oh. “Is that right?”
“It is. I’ve had my eye on you.”
Unease creeps through my veins. This was supposed to be a fun exchange of innocent flirtation. Why does it feel like something else?
“I’m calling your bluff,” I try again. “We both know your eyes have been elsewhere.”
This time I’m serious and referencing my friend and coworker, Chloe Rivers, who Zach was crushing on when they first started working together. Nothing ever happened between her and Zach, but that doesn’t change the fact that he asked her out—twice. Talk about a blow to my ego.
“Ouch.” He frowns. “I’ll give you that one, but that’s not really fair. I thought you were dating that comic artist guy, Gavin. But I figured it out about a month ago. He’s really turned out to be a problem for me, and I don’t even know him beyond the conference room.”
I laugh, knowing how right he is. Gavin and I started working for BelleCurve around the same time two years ago, and there was an immediate attraction between us. I’d only met Zach twice the entire first year of working there. He didn’t start frequenting the office until one year ago, and that’s when Gavin and I … well. We were something, but we were never official. Deep down I always knew his heart belonged to someone else, and since I wasn’t looking for anything serious, it worked for us both.
“So then you finally saw the shining light that had been standing in front of you for two whole years.” I sigh, removing a hand from his to fan myself dramatically.
He grabs my hand back as his lips curl up slowly. “As a matter of fact, it was just like that. You were sneaking a piece of cake from the catering station outside the conference room when someone flicked on the entry light. Prettiest damn deer I ever saw. Wide-eyed and so guilty.”
His laughter is infectious, but I roll my eyes, hoping to hide the fact that his honesty throws me off balance. He’s playing my game, and he might be doing it better than me. There’s a reason Zachary Ryan needs to be kept at a distance. I just need to remember what that reason is.
“You going to come out to any of our games this season?”
There it is. That’s the reason right there: football. Not my thing.
At any other sporting event, consuming copious amounts of booze, squeezing into a youth-sized jersey, and losing my voice in the crowd would be an exceptional time for me. But not football.
“Chloe mentioned getting tickets to a game. You never know.” I bat my eyes up at him. He’ll get no promises from me.
There’s a lift of the side of his mouth. “Ah, I can’t take the anticipation. How about I leave you tickets for our first home game?”
“Really?”
He eyes me suspiciously. “I guess it depends on who you bring. Chloe, sure. A guy, no.”
His directness is so surprising, I laugh. “Why not? Guys are into football, aren’t they?”
Narrowed eyes glare back at me in a challenge. “Well, that’s kind of the problem. We have a female fan presence quota we need to meet. If I give you these tickets, it’s a girls-only deal.” He shrugs in mock helplessness.
“No promises, Zach.”
“Have you been to a Seattle game before?”
I wrinkle my nose. “No.”
“Then you need to come. You won’t regret it. The energy in that stadium is insane.”
The hope in his expression lights me up just enough to ignore the warning signs, and I give him an overly dramatic eye flutter. “You mean I have a choice?”
I should remember, Zachary is competitive. If I’m going to throw sarcasm and wit his way, I should expect he’ll be ready with a response. What I’m not expecting is for him to lean down and press his full lips to my ear. A breath escapes before he speaks, and it dances across my skin, raising the hairs on my arms and neck. Ah.
“You always have a choice with me, Monica.” He doesn’t pull away, and I feel my body tense in his arms, waiting for what comes next. “But just so you know, I can be very convincing when I want something.”
It definitely doesn’t sound like we’re talking about football anymore. He leans back to study me as I swallow the ball of nerves in my throat.
“No response?” he challenges. “That might be a first.”
Heat creeps up my neck as I struggle to find words. Any words will do. “I wouldn’t want to distract you from the game.”
He winks. “Not a chance, Cakes. And I promise not to blame you if we lose.”
Cakes?
An eyebrow raise is enough of a question to get him laughing again before answering. “What? You have a problem with that name too? You’re the one who made me promise not to call you by your full name.” He shakes his head. “No take-backs. This one’s sticking. Cakes it is, for more reasons than one.”
I’m not even going to ask. There’s silence between us, just as my eyes catch sight of two familiar faces heading eagerly for the door. I sneak a look at the retreating figures of Chloe and my ex-fling buddy, Gavin.
It’s not weird, really, and I would never call him my ex-fling buddy out loud. I’ve been rooting for them to hook up since Gavin confessed their history to me over lunch one day. Chloe had just started working as creative writer at BelleCurve, and he was not handling it well. Turns out there was a treehouse full of issues they had to overcome. Their history is deep and complex, but it’s beautiful. I’m just hopeful them leaving together now means they’ve finally learned how to communicate.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice the hand lift from my waist and turn my chin, comman
ding my attention. When I stare back into Zachary’s eyes, my heart does a chaotic dance of its own. He’s a beautiful man, with kind, blue eyes that transport me to the Caribbean. His brows, slightly downturned toward his nose, give away his permanently curious nature. But my favorite feature is his aquiline nose that speaks to his strength and dominance. It sits perfectly above those full lips—lips that turn up into perfect curves and widen into the most teasing and beautiful smile—a smile that makes it impossible not to grow taller in his arms, as if he’s the sun and I’m powerless without his light.
It’s at this moment that I need to remind myself that no man is perfect. Not even Zachary Ryan. I admire him for what he stands for, for his charm and playfulness. I like him, even. But I know guys like him too well, and while I’m more than happy to partake in some mutual flirtation, he isn’t fooling me.
For the past month, the back-and-forth banter has been steady but fleeting. Every time he comes to BelleCurve, he stops by my desk without fail. We banter and flirt until it’s time for him to run off to practice, or to a press conference, or wherever the heck it is he goes. It’s never been a big deal. Besides, flirting comes as second nature to me. It’s how I communicate with guys, ensuring I always maintain the upper hand.
It’s good to feel wanted, but it bothers me that there’s more effort involved than usual in maintaining the upper hand with Zach. It makes me uneasy. Something tells me this man could crush me if given the chance.
In arms that feel far too good—too addictive—I recognize this for what it is, what it should be … and what it cannot be.
Zachary Ryan is a fairytale. And I don’t believe in those.
When it comes to beauty, Monica Stevens takes the cake. Pun intended. The girl does love her desserts. In fact, it might be her one and only weakness, if you can even call it that. Otherwise, she’s the most strong-willed, confident, gorgeous, stubborn, and feisty woman I have ever met.
Somehow, I’ve managed to convince her that dancing with me for the rest of the night is her best option. Three songs after the song and a half she agreed to, and she’s still in my arms. Stepping perfectly to every beat, giggling and batting those sexy lashes at me like she owns this interaction. As if she has control enough to walk away whenever she wants.