With Mia’s drink in one hand and my beer in the other, it’s a challenge to weave my way through clusters of party guests who are in varying states of inebriation and too caught up in conversations to pay attention to what’s going on around them. Still, I manage to do it without spilling the drinks on myself or anyone else.
I find Mia exactly where she said she would be, at the edge of the dance floor with her dad and a dude I’ve never met before. They don’t notice me as I walk up to them; Mia’s back is turned to me, and her dad’s attention is entirely on her.
And he doesn’t look happy. Not at all.
Aw, crap.
I’ve seen that expression on Franklin Waters’ face before. It’s the mixture of disgust and disappointment he shows when his middle child is being lippy with him and it seems like he’s wishing he could take his belt to her.
Frank catches sight of me, and it might be the first time he’s actually looked pleased to see me. “Jay!” he booms, spreading his arm toward me in welcome. “How’s emergency medicine?”
So, yeah. This is how he greets me these days, and since we missed seeing him at the house earlier, I get to deal with it now. He likes to make comments about my specialty, that it’s not real medicine, that emergency physicians are basically glorified triage nurses, and yadda yadda. And he’s really good at sounding like he’s only halfway joking.
I’ve found that the best way to respond to his jabs is by preempting them.
“Same old,” I answer as I hand Mia her margarita and she gives me a quiet thank-you. “Over-prescribing antibiotics and giving narcotics to junkies.”
Frank laughs abruptly and loudly, flashing a toothy grin. Oh, yeah, that’s the other thing about him: he loves sarcasm.
“And saving lives and easing pain and suffering,” Mia adds with cheerfulness that sounds a bit strained, watching me while taking a quick drink. She’s definitely not thrilled with her dad right now. Wonder what he said to set her off?
I really don’t need her help, though, so I ask her, “Isn’t that pretty much what all physicians do?”
Frank lets out a snort and a chuckle. “You’re too humble, Jay.”
“And you pick on him too much,” Mia shoots back at her dad.
His eyes flash, and for a second it seems like he’s going to respond, but instead he shifts his attention to the guy who I still have no idea who he is. “Guess you two haven’t been introduced. This is Mia’s friend, Jay Bradshaw. Jay, this is Aaron Mitchell. His father’s been a buddy of mine since we were kids.”
We do the handshake and polite greeting thing, and I’m kind of surprised to find the other man scrutinizing me with a somewhat reserved expression. He’s a good-looking guy, probably a bit closer to thirty than me, and he has the slick and polished appearance of a TV anchor. Or a politician. Or a mob boss?
My gut reaction of dislike to Aaron Mitchell only deepens as I take in the way he’s eyeing Mia. He’s definitely interested. And I get the feeling her dad approves.
“Although, Jay,” Frank says thoughtfully, “I suppose at this point we might as well call you a family friend, huh?”
Yup. There’s no mistaking that dismissing tone. Son of a bitch.
Frank is watching me with raised eyebrows, and my next thought pops uninvited into my head. Your daughter gave me a blow job in her car on the side of the freeway earlier today. She swallowed. It was fucking amazing.
I’m too annoyed to feel uncomfortable under his stare. I’m not even worried that he might somehow read my mind. In fact, I kind of wish he could. Because he’s not exactly being subtle here. He’s reassuring this Aaron guy that if he’s interested in Mia, I’m not an obstacle.
Which is none of Frank Waters’ fucking business.
And it’s also untrue.
Before I can respond, Mia pipes up with, “Yeah, just like Aaron is a family friend. And everyone else at this party.”
Jesus. I take a big swig of my beer and try to figure out how I can disengage myself from this conversation. Preferably taking Mia with me, because it sounds like she would benefit from a time-out.
“Well,” Aaron announces in the brisk voice of a peacemaker, “this family friend is wondering if you’d like to dance, Mia?”
Motherfucker. I clench my jaw, and every last one of my muscles go as taut. Just in case I’m doing a shitty job hiding my agitation, I try to disguise it by lifting the bottle up to my lips again. While I’m watching Mia for her reaction.
“Sure!” she says without hesitation. “I’d love to.”
And Aaron Mitchell flashes her a smile that looks smug and douchebaggy. Then he offers me his hand again. “Nice to meet you, Jay.”
“Likewise.” Giving his hand a quick squeeze, I think I manage not to sound disingenuous. My stomach is churning, and I want to punch someone, anyone. Because I’m pissed at the whole world right now and especially myself. If I hadn’t given Mia a gag order on our relationship status, I can guaran-fucking-tee this wouldn’t be happening.
“Hold my drink?” she asks, thrusting her glass at me.
“Absolutely.” This time I know my insincerity is obvious, but I don’t fucking care.
Mia holds my gaze as I accept the long-stemmed cocktail glass, her eyebrows arched in a sort of teasing challenge. Like she’s saying, Don’t be mad at me. This is your own damn fault.
Which it is, I guess. She wanted to dance. I said no.
At least it seems she’s doing this to make a point and not because she is actually interested in Aaron. The douchebag.
The two of them stroll onto the dance floor. Mia eases into her partner’s arms, which fold around her and pull her much closer than is necessary, and they start slowly dancing to a modern country song that I’m guessing is Garth Brooks. Because apparently the DJ kind of sucks.
“Speaking of drinks, I need a refill.” Mia’s dad sounds nauseatingly self-satisfied, clapping me on the shoulder as he walks past me toward the bar. “We’ll catch up later, Jay.”
Small favors. I’ve had enough of Frank Waters for one evening, and I don’t know how long my patience would’ve held together if he’d wanted to continue chatting.
Forcing myself to not look at the dance floor, I head back in the direction of my table. On the way there I notice Mia’s brother-in-law by himself with his youngest daughter in his arms. He sits there with his suit jacket draped over the back of his chair and a bottle of Heineken on the table in front of him, and I can’t tell if he’s looking at something across the room or just staring into thin air. Abigail’s blonde head is flopped onto her father’s shoulder, her eyes closed and her pouty lips parted.
Stopping by the chair next to him, I say, “You look like you could use some company.”
Giving a small jerk, he blinks up at me for a second before one corner of his mouth curves and he drawls, “What do you mean? This is the most fun I’ve had since the bar exam.”
Snickering, I place Mia’s drink and my bottle on the table, and then I shrug out of my suit jacket and hang it over the back of the chair before pulling it out and sitting down. “Keeps you out of the line of fire, though.”
Logan slants me a narrow, considering look. “Frank’s pitching fastball tonight?”
Well, that wasn’t that hard of a guess on his part. He probably saw me talking to his father-in-law just a minute ago. And Mia. And the douchebag. Both of whom I feel like I should be getting points for successfully ignoring at the moment.
“He’s trying,” I reply tightly.
His lips twisting, Mia’s brother-in-law grabs his own beer bottle from the table and lifts it to his mouth. Logan McKinley has that smooth, clean-cut look with chiseled, flawless features that turn women stupid. I don’t know if his powerhouse of a law firm in San Diego is the kind that advertises on billboards, but if they do, they’d be morons not to feature Logan up front and center.
Because, even if it’s just subconsciously, people really are that shallow.
After Logan has taken a healthy drink, he remains silent for a while, his attention drawn back to whatever he was staring at before. I follow the direction of his gaze, and it seems that he’s watching his wife and his oldest daughter. Paige and Freya are on the dance floor, too, and they look like a perfect and pretty mother-daughter picture in their flowing dresses while they laugh and twirl along with the music.
“Sorry, man,” Logan finally says with a shake of his head. “I’ve got nothing.”
I let out a snort. “Is that what you tell the prosecution?”
He rolls his eyes. “I would if it was Frank. Some battles just aren’t worth fighting.”
Yeah, okay. I can definitely sympathize with that.
The twangy country song ends, and the temptation to look at the dance floor overwhelms me. I spot Mia and the douche in the middle of the cluster of couples, and he’s still holding on to her, and they’re looking thrilled with each other’s company.
Goddamn it.
“Wonderful Tonight” by Eric Clapton starts playing. And they stay. They fucking stay on the dance floor, swaying along to the slow, romantic tune.
God fucking dammit.
Now that I’ve broken my resolve, I can’t tear my eyes away again. Mia looks stunning out there, all shiny in that strapless purple dress of hers with its clingy bodice that reveals a hint of cleavage, hugging her slim body down to the waist where it flares out in layers of flimsy, sheer fabric. Her smoky eyes are twinkling, and a few curled strands of her pinned-up hair frame her face, bouncing seductively as her partner leads her around the dance floor. Her strappy, too-many-fucking-inches sandal high heels give her a provocative posture and emphasize her long, toned legs.
And Aaron the Douchebag is obviously smitten. Even from this distance I can see the admiration in his eyes, the barely concealed lust. I clench my fists, bile rising into my throat.
“How much older than her do you think he is?” I ask Mia’s brother-in-law without breaking my attention away from the floor.
“Who?” he says, sounding distracted and faintly disinterested.
“The guy Mia is dancing with.”
Logan squints in the direction of the dancing couples. He lets out a grunt. “Two or three years maybe.”
Yeah, he’s probably right. So much for dismissing the asshole as being too old for her. The tight knot in the pit of my gut tightens. Hot and urgent anger pounds in my chest, pressing inside my skull and burning under my skin.
I’m probably overreacting right now, and I want to stop doing that, but I don’t know how.
I pick up my beer to finish it off and catch Logan frowning at me, so while the bitter brew rolls over my tongue, I widen my eyes in question.
“Did I miss the part where you told me why you give a shit?” he asks.
Aw, hell. I swallow uncomfortably. I’m not interested in having a discussion about me and Mia. So I decide to go with a deliberately vague response.
“Did you?” I say, trying to look surprised without overdoing it. “I’m sure Paige told you I’m sleeping in Mia’s room this weekend.”
Logan’s countenance darkens, his jaw flexing. “My wife doesn’t tell me anything these days.”
I blink at him. All right. That was unexpected. Feels like I should ask a follow-up there, but even though that comment might be his way of inviting me to do exactly that, I just don’t know him well enough to go there.
Logan looks away, saving me from having to say anything. I glance back at the dance floor, but I don’t immediately see Mia and the douchebag, and then Logan suddenly asks, “Did you say you’re sleeping in her room?”
I look at him. Give a small nod.
His eyebrows shoot up. “Does Frank know?”
“Uh. I don’t know. I’d assume so?”
“Trust me,” Logan says dryly. “If he did, you’d know.”
Okay, then. I’ll take his word for it. No idea how I feel about that. Not sure I even want to think about it.
I pick out Mia and her dance partner again. They’re smiling and laughing, and while I wasn’t looking, Aaron’s hand has slid around to the small of her back. Really low on her back. As in, I’m pretty sure that only half of his hand is located within the area of her body that any reasonable person would call her back.
As someone who aced every anatomy test I’ve ever taken, I can say without a doubt that the other half of his hand is most definitely on her ass.
I grind my teeth together. That motherfucker.
“And what are you boys up to?” a slightly raspy and breathless voice calls out over the sound of Clapton’s strained crooning and mournful electric guitar. Mia’s grandmother stands with her hands grasping the back of the chair next to Logan, and she’s looking between me and him, lips pursed and eyes gleaming with mock suspicion.
The douche is touching Mia’s ass.
Logan looks up at her and sighs as he answers, “Being a dad.”
Touching her ass. Blood is rushing in my ears, a loud swoosh-swooshing that’s making me light-headed.
Lily Waters’ face splits into a smile, which dimples the skin on her finely wrinkled cheeks. She reaches out and gives her grandson-in-law’s shoulder a squeeze. “And you’re doing a fantastic job, Logan.”
With the back of her hand, she gently strokes her great-granddaughter’s cheek. Abigail is still sound asleep in her father’s lap, looking angelic and peaceful.
Why the hell is Mia letting him touch her ass?
“Jay?” Lily’s voice is suddenly near my left ear. I turn my head and see her in the chair next to me.
Did I black out there for a moment? I was watching her and Logan, but I have no memory of her moving or taking a seat by me.
“Sorry,” I tell her quickly. “Did you ask me a question?”
“What are you doing?” She enunciates every word while her green eyes—so much like Mia’s, except Lily’s are framed by crow’s feet—seem to be smiling at me.
I’m feeling kind of disoriented. Have I had too much to drink already? I knew the alcohol was a bad idea.
I take a deep breath. “Just, uh. Having a beer. Enjoying the party?”
“No.” Lily’s tone turns sharp. “I meant, what the hell are you doing, Jay? Why are you sitting here while that handsy Mitchell boy is dancing with Mia?”
My grandma thinks you’re my boyfriend. I’ve given up trying to convince her she’s wrong.
Mia told me that. Years ago. Guess Lily never gave up that notion?
She reaches for my hand that’s keeping a death grip on my beer bottle and gives it a pat. “I went up to that DJ and requested a song for you. He said he’d play it next.”
Huh? I stare dumbly at Mia’s grandmother.
Before I can ask what she means, she tosses a baleful look at the dance floor and says, “I don’t think he’s planning on letting her go anytime soon.”
No. No, he’s not. The motherfucking douchebag piece of shit.
My chair scrapes the floor with a squeal as I push it back and get to my feet, muttering, “Excuse me.”
My legs feel a little weak as they carry me around the table toward the center of the room. I squeeze past the dancing couples, offering a hurried apology to one woman who bumps into me.
Then I’m standing right next to Mia and her partner. The douchebag notices me first, and he stalls, eyeing me with narrowed eyes.
As Mia is forced to stop dancing, too, she shoots me a look of confusion. “Jay?”
I start to say I’m sorry, but the words get stuck in my throat.
Because I’m not fucking sorry.
“I’m gonna have to cut in,” I say instead.
Letting go of Mia, Aaron Mitchell grinds out a noise that’s part huff, part snort. “I beg your pardon?”
I curl my lip, squinting at him. Seriously. Who lives in this century and says, “I beg your pardon?”
The song ends, and the DJ’s voice cuts in. His announcement is rushed and kind of slurred, but I catch a few words here and there, including “request” and “The Drifters.”
“Mia clearly feels obliged to dance with family friends,” I explain coldly to the other man, stepping closer to her and wrapping my hand loosely around her elbow. “It’s my turn.”
The douche lets out a humorless laugh brimming with incredulous outrage. Just as the next song starts, his gaze unglues itself from me, shifting back to his dance partner. “Mia?”
Oh, that’s great. He can be courteous and sensitive all he wants, asking her opinion. Meanwhile, I’m not waiting for her answer.
Turning away from him, I wrap my arm around Mia, resting my hand on her back. My other hand takes hold of hers. She looks kind of shell-shocked, and when her other hand goes up to my shoulder, I’m pretty sure she does it without thinking.
And then I’m leading her around the dance floor to the beat of the light and poppy ballad. The DJ obviously knows he’s playing to a mostly older crowd, but I don’t mind. I’m dancing with Mia. I’m holding Mia. My anger starts to melt away.
And then the song lyrics register. They’re about a guy who lets his woman dance with other men but wants her to remember who she’s going home with. I smile to myself. Mia’s grandmother knows what’s what.
With a little shake of her head, Mia seems to recover her faculties. She still sounds stunned as she says, “What happened to rule numero uno?”
“What happened to not sharing towels or drinking straws?” I swing her around just in time to catch a glimpse of the douche as he retreats past the other couples, away from the dance floor. Good for him for making the right choice.
“I was only dancing with him.”
No, actually, I’m pretty sure she was punishing me. I guess it worked.
“And now,” I say, “you’re only dancing with me.”
She falls silent. I can smell her lotion again, and it’s giving me flashbacks to this afternoon in her bedroom, spinning and spinning in the office chair with her straddling my lap.
If we were back there right now, it’d end differently. I wouldn’t have let her go.
Her fine-boned hand seems small enveloped in mine, and the gauzy fabric of her dress is so thin I can feel the heat from her skin underneath it. In this light, her sea-green eyes look murky, and it’s well known that murky waters are not safe.
Watching her from across the room while she danced with another guy didn’t feel right. But this—keeping her close, commanding her attention, claiming her—this feels right.
“You’re the one who said it was against the rules,” she points out when she finally finds her tongue again.
“Sometimes the rules have to be broken.”
The music starts to fade out, transitioning smoothly into The Way You Look Tonight, except with this one, the DJ’s choosing to play the Michael Bublé version. I keep my hold on Mia, slowing us down and tightening my arms around her so she’s flush up against me.”
“Yeah?” She raises her brows, her eyes like firecrackers. “And when’s that?”
Over her shoulder, just beyond the dance floor, I see Aaron the Douche standing in a small group of people with a drink in hand, but in the few seconds that he’s within my line of sight, his gaze slides toward us.
Yeah, he might have backed off, but he hasn’t given up. My shoulders stiffening, I look back down at Mia and reply, “When you let a stranger put his hand on your ass.”
Her lips clamp together, and her hand twitches and clenches inside mine. Any hint of playfulness evaporates from her face. “A,” she says tightly, “he’s not a stranger. And B, he didn’t touch my ass.”
A snort escapes me. “Sure as hell looked like he did.”
She leans in, and her breath is hot on my ear as she lowers her voice so that I can just barely hear her above the music. “I like having my ass touched, Jay. I’d definitely know if he did.”
Oh, Jesus. Could she have picked a more maddening response? No, she could not.
I’m swallowing hard, my mouth suddenly parched, and my dick really wants me to haul her off the dance floor and find someplace private where I can find out just how much she likes it.
I like having my ass touched.
I might even settle for semiprivate right now.
We’ve made another three-sixty, and there’s the douchebag again. Glancing in our direction. Again.
“You’re not dancing with him.” I can hear my voice as the words spill out, and I don’t sound like myself.
Going rigid in my arms, she inches back to look up at me, her expression chilly. “I’m pretty sure that’s not your decision.”
“He keeps staring at us,” I say, turning my head in the asshole’s direction, and yup, I catch him looking again. “He’s like a fucking hyena, waiting for a chance to pounce.”
Mia rolls her eyes. “Nice analogy.”
“Thank you. You’re not dancing with him again.”
She blows out a huff. “How exactly are you going to stop me?”
Good question. I’m having visions of going full caveman by tossing her over my shoulders and carrying her out of the room. It’s a satisfying fantasy, but yeah, not gonna happen. I haven’t totally lost it.
It’s pretty early still—I’m sure we’ll be here for another couple of hours at least—and I can’t put a leash on her, can I?
But maybe that stuff’s not necessary. Maybe I’m considering killing a mosquito with a shotgun when all that’s needed is a swift and well-aimed swat.
Am I really that desperate, though?
One look into her eyes, her familiar and beautiful eyes that are widened in question and glinting with stubborn defiance, and I don’t even have to think about it.
I dip my head down and kiss her.
She gives a little jerk, and I sense the surprise ripping through her body. Keeping us swaying along with the mellow rhythm of the music, I tilt my head farther and press my lips harder against hers. I feel it the moment she softens, the instant when her shock gives way to surrender. Because I’m her weakness. Just like she is mine.
I’m tossing my own rule out the window right now, and there will definitely be repercussions. People here will notice that I’m kissing Mia. But I don’t care. The only person I give a shit about watching me kissing Mia Waters, watching me stake my claim, watching me mouth-fucking her is Aaron Mitchell. I want him to pay close attention and get the message.
The song peters out, and I scrape her bottom lip gently between my teeth as I pull back. We stop moving. The DJ’s saying something through the speakers again, but that’s just background noise. My heart hammering, I see only Mia and her heavy-lidded eyes that are anchored to mine, can only hear the sound of her quick, shallow breathing.
“Like that,” I murmur.
She looks blank, dazed. “Huh?”
“That’s how I’ll stop you.” Slanting a glance around the room, it takes me a second to spot the douchebag. He’s chatting with a middle-aged woman in a sleek black dress, his back turned to the dance floor. “And I think it worked.”
“Oh.” It’s all she says while standing here in my arms, blinking up at me with her mouth slightly parted.
“You’re not dancing with him again,” I repeat for good measure.
“Okay.” Her head bobs once.
An up-tempo pop song starts. Apparently the DJ thinks it’s time to kick it up a notch, and I’m done with dancing. But I’m not ready to let Mia go.
“You wanna get out of here?”
“Yup.” She nods again, being uncharacteristically monosyllabic.
Keeping hold of her hand, I turn on my heel and begin to lead her off the dance floor. I’m careful not to look around the room as we stride past the dancing couples. Time enough later to worry about who noticed and what the repercussions will be.
With a sideways peek at her, I ask, “Think we can be subtle about leaving?”
Twisting her hand inside mine so that we’re braiding fingers, gripping each other tighter, she tugs slightly on my arm so that our progress across the room slows. I look down at her and see that life has returned to her eyes and her cheeks are glowing pink.
“I really couldn’t care less, Jay,” she says.
Right. For once, we’re in perfect agreement.