Blakely beams and kisses my cheek. “You are a treasure, J-A. A true treasure.”
I slap her butt as she walks away. She yelps and turns back to me, her mouth open as though she has been scandalized.
“Jane-Ann Callister! You brute!”
“Go show that cowboy a good time,” I shout, eliciting a few encouraging “yee-haws” from the women dancing around me.
As soon as Blakely is gone, I push through the crowd back to the bar. My heels are aching inside my boots, and I’m thirsty.
I wave down the bartender for a beer and lean back against the bar. In the minute it took me to cross the bar, Blakely managed to introduce herself and begin a very heated make-out session with the cowboy. Hell, I don’t even know if she actually introduced herself first. When my beer slides next to me, I pick it up and raise it in salute to her and her latest conquest from across the bar.
“Blakely didn’t wait long to find someone to take home.”
I don’t need to look to know Colby Brooker is whispering in my ear. I smile without looking at him and shrug.
“She has a long line of interested men. Why should she wait?”
His elbow nudges my arm gently. “She isn’t the only one who turns plenty of heads.”
I dated Colby Brooker in high school. He was my first serious boyfriend, my first kiss, my first time, and my first love. He has a very special place in my heart. Unfortunately for Coby, that place is nostalgic and firmly in the past. My present feelings for Colby are the same way I feel about my childhood bedroom. It’s sweet to look back and remember that time, but I’ve outgrown it and Colby. I only wish Colby understood that.
“You are such a flatterer,” I say, finally looking his way.
He’s standing less than a foot away, his face even closer than that. He smells like whiskey and sawdust, and I can tell by the way he is looking at me that he is hoping tonight will be the night. The night where I finally realize that we are perfect for one another. That we should get back together. That breaking up with him after high school was a mistake.
He smiles his crooked smile at me and shakes his head. “Only to you, Jane-Ann. And it isn’t flattery if it’s true. You look great.”
“So do you,” I say in what I hope is a companionable way. “How long have you been here?”
He takes a long drink from his beer and leans back against the bar. “Long enough to know I’m talking to the only interesting woman in the room.”
Talking to Colby would be pleasant if he wasn’t constantly hitting on me. I’ve told him directly too many times to count that I see him as a friend, so I’ve taken to just brushing his advances under the rug and ignoring them.
“I’m going to tell Blakely you said that.”
He laughs and tips his head toward where she and her cowboy are pressed against the wall, his hands grabbing her in very unladylike places. “You’ll have to use the jaws of life to tear her away from her new man, but if you’re up for the challenge, then go right ahead.”
“They do seem rather preoccupied,” I admit.
The music changes to an acoustic love song. Colby drops his empty glass on the bar and holds out a hand, bowing low.
“Dance with me, m’lady.”
I know dancing with him will only encourage his misplaced feelings, but when the people around us begin to ooh and ahh, I can’t bring myself to embarrass him. So, I grab his arm and yank him to standing and then toward the dance floor.
Rather than being discouraged, Colby seems to think I’m simply overeager, and he’s beaming as he slips his hands around my waist and twines my fingers around his neck.
“This reminds me of senior prom,” he says. His cheeks are flushed from drinking, and his eyes are reflecting the colored lights of the dance floor along with a good deal of hope. Prom was the night we first slept together.
“I like to think we’re both more mature than we were then,” I say. “And better dressed. I was wearing a spaghetti-strap dress, four-inch wedges, and had crimped my hair. Not cute.”
“I just remember thinking you were perfect. I still think that.”
He pinches one of my blond braids between his fingers and then lets it fall against my chest so he can tighten his grip on my waist.
I quickly look around for anyone I know within shouting distance. I need a buffer. Someone who can distract Colby from his laser-like focus on me. Blakely and the cowboy have disappeared, meaning they are either doing dirty things in the bathroom, the parking lot, or they are on their way back to Blakely’s house to do dirty things. Regardless, Blakely is occupied and I don’t recognize anyone else.
Even if my other friends were here, they wouldn’t help me. All of them have told me on multiple occasions that I’m crazy for keeping Colby at arm’s length. On one hand, I get what they see in him. He has sandy brown hair that is always perfectly mussed, deep dimples that give him a boy-next-door kind of charm, and he is lean and strong and tan from his job working construction. Colby Brooker is an all-around good guy. He just doesn’t do anything for me.
When I look at him, I see a friend. My chest doesn’t swell with desire. I don’t find myself itching in all the right places, desperate to get him alone and tear into him. Sex isn’t the main part of a relationship, I know that, but it is an important part. And the fact is that I do not have any sexual feelings about Colby.
“You’re sweet,” I mumble, keeping my eyes on the crowd around us.
His fingers tickle up my spine, pressing me closer to him until we are almost welded together. We’re only a few centimeters away from crossing a line that I have spent a long time drawing in the sand.
The feeling of being trapped, caged-in washes over me, and I have the urge to push on his chest until he stumbles back and then make a run for it. But I know pushing Colby away will hurt him and cause a scene, and I don’t want to do either of those things.
I scan the crowd yet again, bouncing from cowboy hat to cowboy hat, hoping for a single familiar face that I can use to get out of this situation.
Just as Colby’s fingers are pressing into my spine just beneath my bra strap, and I’m weighing the option of pretending to pass out, my eyes land on a chauffeur hat. Or a police officer’s hat? It looks like it could be the hat a stripper would wear if he was wearing a police officer costume. It’s hideous and black and very noticeable, but then I look down and see the man beneath it, and suddenly I can’t remember what the hat looks like at all.
Even in the dim lights of the club, I can tell his eyes are blue. They are a pale blue that looks almost white from so far away, and the hair I can see sticking out from beneath the hat is blond. But not a golden blond like mine, a white blond that pairs perfectly with his pale skin. Actually, he might be an angel.
I’m halfway convinced he is an angel when he turns his head to look to the left and the lights cut across his cheekbones, and then I’m completely certain. No mere mortal could have cheekbones so sharp or a jaw so square. His lips are pink and pouty, and his brow is furrowed like he is searching the crowd for someone.
Me. He is looking for me. He just doesn’t know it yet.
“Oh, my God,” I say, patting Colby’s chest with my open palm. “I’m so sorry, but I’ve just seen someone I know, and I really want to go say hi.”
Colby grabs my hand, holding it to his chest, and follows my eyesight. When he sees the male angel, his eyes narrow.
“You know him?”
I hum an unconvincing yes and stretch up on my toes to kiss his cheek. It’s a dirty trick, but it works. Colby is so surprised by the kiss that he drops my hand, and I’m able to escape into the crowd. He calls after me, but I’m too far away to properly hear what he’s saying, and even if I could, it would be too late. I’m being drawn to the angel like his beauty is a tractor beam.
Before I’ve thought of a single thing to say, I’m standing a few feet away from him, admiring the full-length view of him rather than just his head and shoulders above the crowd.
He is wearing a pair of black slacks that are rumpled but well-fitted enough that I can tell his thighs are thick and muscled. He has a white button-down tucked into them, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, giving every woman in the bar a glorious glimpse of his forearms.
My eyes glance up to the hat again, and I’m tempted to reach out and swat it off his head. It is ugly and distracting. But before I can act on the thought, I look slightly below the hat and realize he is staring at me.
His pink lips are pulled into a half-smirk so slight I could almost be imagining it, and his pale blue eyes—the color of turquoise sea glass—are holding me in place, making it impossible to move.
Then, I remember Colby is probably watching me, and if I don’t do something soon, he’ll realize I lied to him about knowing the beautiful stranger. Plus, if I continue staring at him, the angel will think I’m a psychopath.
“Hi,” I manage, swiping one of my braids behind my shoulder and then running a hand down my neck.
The other side of his mouth lifts to match the other, his smirk now at one-hundred-percent potency, and it nearly knocks me backward.
“Hello.”
Good God. A European accent. It takes all my willpower not to wrap my legs around his waist and direct him to my car in the parking lot.
“You aren’t from around here.” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize what a cliché they are.
His pale eyebrows raise until they are hidden beneath his hat. “I thought people only said that in movies.”
“Me too,” I admit, my cheeks going warm.
I suddenly wish I’d taken Blakely’s advice and worn something feminine for once. I don’t see what is unfeminine about blue jeans and a cotton V-neck, but I also kind of wish I was showing off a bit more cleavage. I don’t show them often, but I have incredible breasts. They are one of my better features, honestly. I could have worn my black lacy tank top and been a tiny bit closer to the raw sex appeal oozing off of the man in front of me.
He leans forward, and even though we’ve just met, I wonder if he is going to kiss me. He doesn’t, and instead shouts over the music, “What’s your name?”
“Jane-Ann. Yours?”
“Jane-Ann,” he repeats, rolling the letters of my name over his tongue like he is trying to decide if he likes it. “Can I buy you a drink, Jane-Ann?”
He presses a hand to my lower back and leads me to the bar before I can answer, but I don’t mind. I would have said yes. I mean, how could I say no?
We walk right past Colby on our way to the bar, and his face is pinched like someone kicked over his sandcastle. I feel bad, but the guilt is washed away by the warmth I feel at being in the beautiful man’s presence. He politely asks a woman whether she couldn’t shift down one seat so we can sit next to one another, and I can tell by the glazed look in her eyes that their two-second conversation mesmerized her.
He orders us two beers and then turns to me, one elbow leaning against the bar and one of his legs stretched out casually to rest on the metal rung of my bar stool. He is effortlessly casual.
“You never told me your name,” I say.
He smirks again, his eyes dancing. “I guess I didn’t.”
I raise my brows. “Do you plan to?”
“Christian.” In his accent, there is an extra emphasis on the “T.”
“Where are you from, Christian?” With a religious name like that, I’m even more sure he’s an angel.
He takes a drink of his beer and waves his hand dismissively. “Out of town. Just got in from the airport, actually.”
“And your first stop was a honky-tonk?”
He laughs. “Is that what this place is called? I love that.”
I lean in more than the loud music requires and catch a hint of his lemon and cedar scent.
“Most of the people here are locals,” I say. “And very country. No offense, but you stick out.”
“Do I?” he asks, looking down at himself like he is surprised. Then he grabs the hat from his head and holds it out between us. “Do you think it’s the hat?”
His pale blond hair tumbles free, and it is shiny and silky and perfectly cut so it hangs over his forehead but not his ears. Now that I can see his hair, he might stick out more without the hat on.
“What’s with the hat? You look like a stripper.”
My eyes widen at my drunken slip. That thought was supposed to stay tucked away inside my head along with all of my dirty thoughts about him.
Christian’s smile falters. “Is that a bad thing?”
Oh, God. He is a stripper. I can feel my tongue swelling in my mouth, and I think choking on it will be a fitting end. I deserve it.
“No, of course not. I have no problem with strippers. Great work you all do. You make things very festive. I spent most of my cousin’s bachelorette party talking to the stripper. He was a great guy. Very professional.”
It takes me a second to realize tears are gathering in Christian’s eyes, and then he tips his head back and laughs. I can see all of his straight white teeth, and somehow the underside of his jaw is just as mesmerizing of a view as the profile.
“I’m not a stripper, Jane-Ann. But I’m glad to know you’re so open-minded.”
I slap his arm before I can think better of it. His bicep is hard muscle, and I want to run my finger down it.
“That was mean.”
“Sorry, love. I couldn’t resist.”
Love. Okay, he is forgiven.
I’m about to ask again about the hat when I feel something pulling at my shoulder. I look over and see Christian reaching into my purse, which is draped across my chest and hanging at my hip. I swat at his hand, but he pulls out my guilty pleasure before I can stop him.
“Are you carrying a romance novel around in your purse?” he asks, twisting the paperback around in his hands to peruse the cover.
The book is about a prince who falls in love with the woman who tries to steal his family’s fortune. The cover features the two of them in a state of undress on a blanket in the woods.
I snatch the book out of his hands and stuff it back into my bag. “Are you digging through stranger’s purses for your own amusement?”
He leans in, his breath warm on my skin. “I do everything for my own amusement.”
There is no mistaking his meaning. He is at Jimmy’s for a good time, and for some reason, I am who he has set his sights on. I’m not complaining.
I narrow my eyes, pretending for a second that I might deny him his fun.
“Who are you?”
He runs his eyes down my face and then lower, confidence etched into every square inch of his face. He tips his head toward my bag.
“You like royal romances?”
I nod.
“Then you’re in luck,” he says, throwing back the rest of his beer and wiping his lips with his forearm. “Because I happen to be a prince.”
The admission takes me by surprise, and I bark out a laugh. “Oh, is that so?”
He smirks. “Sure is.”
I shake my head, unable to bite back the smile that spreads across my face. “Congratulations. I’ve never heard that pick-up line before.”
“It isn’t a pick-up line.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay, sure.”
“I’m getting the sense you don’t believe me, Jane-Ann.”
My name on his lips is like music. Instinctively, my body bends toward him.
As his eyes move over my body, it’s like stepping out into the sunshine after days, weeks of darkness. I don’t know who Christian is or where he is from or what he does, but he is the most interesting thing that has walked into this honky-tonk in as long as I can remember, and I have no intentions of letting him walk out alone.
I stand up and grab the front of his shirt, twisting my fingers in the fabric. He looks down at my hand and raises one eyebrow in surprise and amusement.
“You can be whoever you want to be tonight as long as you dance with me.”
“I’ve never done this kind of dancing,” he says, though he is already standing up and following me out onto the floor.
I let go of his shirt and reach for his hand instead, enjoying the warmth of it against my skin. I wrap his arm around my waist until his hand is pressed flat against my stomach. He spreads his fingers wide like he wants to touch as much of me as possible, and I shiver at the contact. I smile and look over my shoulder.
“Just hang on to me, Your Highness. I’ll show you the ropes.”
Chapter 3
Christian
Jane-Ann is everything I could have hoped for from an American woman. Her long blond plaits bounce against her shoulders as she kicks and stomps and shakes her body to the music. Just as she promised, she keeps a tight hold on me, pulling me along behind her and keeping me close while she dances. I don’t mind one bit. It’s a nice view.
On top of insane jet lag, standing in a crowd full of men and women in denim with large belt buckles and cowboy boots has me feeling off-kilter. I’m not in Sigmaran anymore.
An imaginary weight lifts off my shoulders. I’m not in Sigmaran anymore. My family has no idea where I am. The press, usually hounding me at every turn, snapping photos as I simply walk down the street, are not waiting outside.
For perhaps the first time in my life, I am alone and free to behave as I choose. Free to do what I want without fear of it getting back to Mother and Father. Without fear of it reflecting poorly on my family and being a bad example for my brothers. I can do whatever I want.
The thought sends a wild rush through me like a shot, and I cling onto Jane-Ann’s hand a little tighter.
“I’m not sure what you were worried about,” she says, turning to me with an easy smile, shouting over the music. “You’re a natural.”
She’s being kind. I’ve stumbled through every single dance since we got on the dance floor, but nothing can account for pure unadulterated, unearned confidence. I might be terrible, but I haven’t stopped smiling.
“I’ve had formal ballroom dance training, but line dancing isn’t a skill many royals need to know.”
Scandalous Box Set Page 18