head. “You say you’re not ‘easy.’” His grip on her hand tightened. “What makes you think that?” A pause. “Did someone tell you that?”
It was as if he held her throat instead of her fingers, a lump forming until tears threatened and swallowing became impossible. She dropped her gaze to his chest, staring at that faded plane. Fly With Me . Too bad Fiona and relationships were a toxic mix. “No, no one. It’s just…I know me, and I know what I am.”
“I’m more interested in who you are, Fiona O’Brien.”
Her name on his lips was a full-body stroke to her senses, and this stroke eased the aching anxiety that had her in a chokehold. Leave him. She had to leave him on the dance floor, or she wouldn’t be able to blame the margaritas for her actions. Torn between the urge to flee and the need to hold onto this man who, with every passing moment, proved how special, how individual he was, she stepped away.
Her gaze locked on her father. Rick watched her steadily from the other side of the cantina.
The strings that were tangled around her heart as part and parcel of her relationship with her father tugged at her. She wondered if she was too old to march over and demand a hug. She wondered if she was too young to march over and demand he mind his own business, because even from here, she could see the hint of worry in eyes the same mutable gray shade as her own.
Those eyes shifted to somewhere over her shoulder, and she knew she wasn’t going to make it off the dance floor.
Declan caught her around the waist, strong forearm a steel band across her spine as he pulled her into him. His lips hovered over hers, a breath away, stealing hers. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“ What? ”
His eyes flashed, melted chocolate shot through with gold. “I’m gonna kiss you, Fi. You can decide if you want it to be here in front of your dad and our coworkers or somewhere more private.” He stepped back and extended his hand. “But either way, I’m kissin’ you.”
Her insides went mushy. Melty. Annoyingly, deliciously liquid. Without another word, she grabbed his hand and tugged him off the dance floor.
SIX
Fiona knew this establishment from front to back, a fact that became quite clear as she pulled Declan past the restrooms and through the quiet restaurant kitchen, where a lone worker scrubbed the stainless steel counters.
The guy didn’t bother glancing up.
Then they were through the fire door and in a side alley, the narrow space separating the cantina from the dry cleaning establishment next door. Two Dumpsters, lids thankfully closed, stood to their left atop cracked concrete, but the alley was otherwise abandoned.
A vent overhead funneled the muted blare of instrumental brass into the alley, while the occasional whoosh of passing cars, several meters to their right, provided a soothing baseline to the silence between them as the door swung shut.
All sound faded to nothing as she dropped his hand, facing him with temptress eyes. “You dance well.”
“You dance better.”
Shrugging, she circled him, balance flawless as her heels clicked on the uneven ground. She carried herself so well, he noted, shoulders even and spine straight. Her dance training seemed obvious to him now. He supposed he’d subliminally noticed it in the makeup trailer and on set. There was a graceful economy to her movements that spoke of long hours spent on her feet and perfecting her form.
Realization hit. He could watch her move all day and never grow bored.
Well, shit.
The desire that had burned into his bones on the dance floor now knotted his stomach as his gaze slowly, slowly traveled from the tips of her toes—painted a glossy Smurf blue—up sleek calves so smooth they gleamed in the faint glow from the overhead light stretched across the alley. That floaty green skirt he couldn’t take his eyes off of inside the cantina flirted a good six inches above her knees,
It was as if he held her throat instead of her fingers, a lump forming until tears threatened and swallowing became impossible. She dropped her gaze to his chest, staring at that faded plane. Fly With Me . Too bad Fiona and relationships were a toxic mix. “No, no one. It’s just…I know me, and I know what I am.”
“I’m more interested in who you are, Fiona O’Brien.”
Her name on his lips was a full-body stroke to her senses, and this stroke eased the aching anxiety that had her in a chokehold. Leave him. She had to leave him on the dance floor, or she wouldn’t be able to blame the margaritas for her actions. Torn between the urge to flee and the need to hold onto this man who, with every passing moment, proved how special, how individual he was, she stepped away.
Her gaze locked on her father. Rick watched her steadily from the other side of the cantina.
The strings that were tangled around her heart as part and parcel of her relationship with her father tugged at her. She wondered if she was too old to march over and demand a hug. She wondered if she was too young to march over and demand he mind his own business, because even from here, she could see the hint of worry in eyes the same mutable gray shade as her own.
Those eyes shifted to somewhere over her shoulder, and she knew she wasn’t going to make it off the dance floor.
Declan caught her around the waist, strong forearm a steel band across her spine as he pulled her into him. His lips hovered over hers, a breath away, stealing hers. “I’m gonna kiss you now.”
“ What? ”
His eyes flashed, melted chocolate shot through with gold. “I’m gonna kiss you, Fi. You can decide if you want it to be here in front of your dad and our coworkers or somewhere more private.” He stepped back and extended his hand. “But either way, I’m kissin’ you.”
Her insides went mushy. Melty. Annoyingly, deliciously liquid. Without another word, she grabbed his hand and tugged him off the dance floor.
SIX
Fiona knew this establishment from front to back, a fact that became quite clear as she pulled Declan past the restrooms and through the quiet restaurant kitchen, where a lone worker scrubbed the stainless steel counters.
The guy didn’t bother glancing up.
Then they were through the fire door and in a side alley, the narrow space separating the cantina from the dry cleaning establishment next door. Two Dumpsters, lids thankfully closed, stood to their left atop cracked concrete, but the alley was otherwise abandoned.
A vent overhead funneled the muted blare of instrumental brass into the alley, while the occasional whoosh of passing cars, several meters to their right, provided a soothing baseline to the silence between them as the door swung shut.
All sound faded to nothing as she dropped his hand, facing him with temptress eyes. “You dance well.”
“You dance better.”
Shrugging, she circled him, balance flawless as her heels clicked on the uneven ground. She carried herself so well, he noted, shoulders even and spine straight. Her dance training seemed obvious to him now. He supposed he’d subliminally noticed it in the makeup trailer and on set. There was a graceful economy to her movements that spoke of long hours spent on her feet and perfecting her form.
Realization hit. He could watch her move all day and never grow bored.
Well, shit.
The desire that had burned into his bones on the dance floor now knotted his stomach as his gaze slowly, slowly traveled from the tips of her toes—painted a glossy Smurf blue—up sleek calves so smooth they gleamed in the faint glow from the overhead light stretched across the alley. That floaty green skirt he couldn’t take his eyes off of inside the cantina flirted a good six inches above her knees,
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