“You come here often?” she asks.
“Willa.” My teeth clench.
“If I make a blow job joke, will you laugh again?”
My teeth grind. “No.”
“What’s the best thing about a blow job?”
“Good lord, woman. Just stop.” I turn my chin down at her and try to give her my most intimidating expression. Just hearing her say the words blow job is too much for a guy who hasn’t gotten one in years.
But, as usual, Willa isn’t the least bit deterred.
Her fingers pulse in mine, and she does that light, sparkly laugh that makes my dick twitch. “No, wait. You’re going to love this one. It’s so you.”
She leans into my ear, and her breath fans across my neck as she huffs out a small snort before composing herself enough to finish the joke. I bite the inside of my cheek to contain whatever expression might pop up on my face. “The ten minutes of silence.”
I have to look away across the room. I can feel her body shaking, laughing at her own joke.
No shame.
“I got you. I saw that. Are your cheeks bleeding, Eaton? Does it hurt to hold in your laughter like that? I hear it can give you erectile dysfunction.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth, Red?”
She blows a raspberry, highly amused. “Oh yeah. She’d love that joke.”
“The joke’s on you though. I wouldn’t last ten minutes and just because you’d be quiet doesn’t mean I would be.”
We both go still, and I watch her eyes widen while I beat myself up internally for letting a snippet of my old self tumble out, woken up by the beautiful redhead in my arms.
“Who said anything about me and you, Cade?” She blinks, her thick lashes making her appear a lot more innocent than I’m thinking she is.
Young? Yes.
Shy? No.
It’s a dangerous combination for a man like me.
The song changes, and before I can reply, some guy who works at the bank cuts in and asks if he can have the next dance.
I nod and step away graciously, even though it kills me. The thought of letting someone else dance with her makes me see red, but I also need to get the fuck away from wherever that conversation was heading.
10
Cade
Beau: Dude. You look like you’re trying to kill someone with the power of your stare.
Beau: Do you have a special superpower I don’t know about?
Cade: Why are you texting me from the same table?
Beau: Because you’re too terrifying to talk to.
Cade: I hope our nation’s enemies don’t find out what a pussy you are.
Beau: That’s rude. I think I’ll go dance with the nanny. She seems nice.
Beau: Yikes. Is that face special for me? Wanna go outside and blow off some steam like when we were kids?
Cade: No. You act like a chucklehead, but you know how to kill people with your bare hands. I’m not dumb enough to fight you.
Cade: Stop grinning at me like that. It’s weird.
I spend the next ten minutes hating myself for walking away. Approximately four songs fit into a ten-minute window, and watching Willa dance with four different men is four men too many.
Ten minutes too long.
She’s all smiles and swagger. I watched her lips move almost the entire time. The bottom one is a little fuller than the top. If she wasn’t smiling all the time, it would give her a pouty sort of look. But there is nothing pouty about Willa Grant.
She’s a spark in the dark. Dancing flames against a midnight sky. She shines brighter than almost anyone in this entire place with her glossy hair, bright dress, and twinkling green eyes.
And she’s the fucking nanny, which means I shouldn’t be counting songs and minutes like some sort of possessive psycho, when all I’ve been to her for over a week is a grumpy asshole.
Doesn’t stop me from breathing a sigh of relief when she shakes hands with whatever asshole just stole two and a half minutes of her life and waves goodnight to him.
When she gets back to our table, I can see the rosy blush on her cheeks, a little perspiration shimmering at her temples, a wayward strand of copper hair sticking to her glossed bottom lip.
Summer says something to her, but it’s hard to hear over the blaring music and constant chatter. Her laughter draws my gaze right as she plunks down beside me without sparing me a glance.
She sits closer this time though. Teasing that center line of the couch. I’m reminded of that night I followed her to her room and stared down at the line on the floor.
Lines I shouldn’t cross. Lines I shouldn’t even be spending this long staring at.