Yes,” I say, finally managing to get a word out to Weston. His lightest touch sucks all words from my voice. My purpose in life seems to be absorbing his every touch, and in the moment it’s a job I take happily. Willingly, even, just as he said.

The “everything” part of his statement? I don’t know what all he can give me—I may still be out a job, but that’s my decision—but I’m eager to find out. I’m just going to stay on this ride a bit longer because truthfully? More of everything is what I want.

I wonder if he’s going to do something right here in this little club, but instead our drinks and my chocolate cake are delivered, pulling the moment back. Part of me is glad, and not just because the cake looks like something straight out of Paris—because I know how experienced Weston is, and I don’t quite know where he’ll take me. One thing I do know is that I’m willing to follow him just about anywhere, as I already demonstrated by following him into an office and (how could I forget) an alley?

Totally worth it, both times.

Weston leans back in his chair, a little smile on his lips like he’s the most content person in the world.

“What’s going on in your mind?” I ask as I take a bite of the cake.

“I want to know how that cake is,” he says, although I bet he was thinking about more than cake.

“Rich,” I say. I take a sip of the cabernet sauvignon I ordered. The velvety red with the decadent chocolate are an amazing combination.

“A word I understand,” he says, a bit cocky.

“I read you grew up on a farm,” I say. I watch him as he holds my gaze, and I wonder if that one word—farm—is unpleasant for him.

“For once the papers got it right,” he finally says, and flicks some imaginary flint from his pants.

“What was that like?” I ask, taking another bite of cake.

“Dirty,” he says. “It where I really learned to work with my hands.”

I set down my fork. “Let me see.” I hold out my hand for his. He lifts it from my thigh where it was still resting. I hold his rather large hand in mine, running my fingertips over the smooth surface of his palm. I turn his hand over and let my finger dip into the pockets between his knuckles. His nails are clean and shiny. “Mr. Bridges,” I begin, “do you get manicures?”

He bristles, but only slightly. “Polish-less, but yes.”

“By the feel of these hands, I’d say you haven’t participated in any sort of manual labor for the better part of a decade.” I let my fingers continue to trace his hand.

“Nowadays these hands do a different kind of job.”

“Lucky for me.”

“Mia, honey, you don’t even know the half of it yet.”

I squeeze his hand. If I kiss him, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop. When he attacked my neck earlier I wanted to climb right on top of his lap. My body needs him like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

I slap his hand. “Tease,” I say.

“Only in the best sense,” he says.

The band plays another lively song, and the only way to get myself through this dessert without straddling him is to get up and move.

“Come on,” I say, taking the hand I just slapped away. “Let’s dance.” He shakes his head no. “Why not? It’ll be fun!”

“No,” he says, although he looks humored by me.

“Why not?”

“Do I need to recite the one rule back to you, Ms. Cassidy? Do not question me.”

I pout, only partly faking it. “You’re no fun.”

His hand squeezes my thigh. “I promise, you don’t even know how fun I can be.” His touch sends sparks all through my body. He really is such a tease.

He sits back in his chair, his hand leaving my thigh. He motions out to the dance floor and says, “But you go ahead.”

“I’m not going to dance without you,” I say.

“I want you to,” he says. “Go on. The dance floor is crowded.”

I look at the dance floor and it is pretty crowded. Maybe I could disappear into it, work out some of the jitters in my body courtesy of Weston. I’m having such an amazing evening that I go against instinct—who dances alone?—and decide to do it.

“Fine,” I say, tossing down my napkin. Weston looks slightly surprised too. “I’ll go. You sit here and be boring. And old,” I add, and he laughs.

I tug down my skirt and go to the small square of parquet. I face the band and start slow, feeling the music in my bones. People around me—all couples—are laughing and moving together and alone, and it’s all one big energy ball. Once I let my inhibitions go, realizing that no one is watching me, I really get into it. The band is great, filling the air with brassy sounds and a little bit of funk. Before I know it I’ve worked up a little sweat, and only then do I turn to look at Weston.

His arm is draped over my empty chair, his glass of Scotch resting on his knee as he watches me—closely, and with a look of such fascination you’d think I was performing surgery. I turn my back to him, mostly because now I’m embarrassed, but when I look over my shoulder his eyes haven’t left me.

“Come on,” I mouth, motioning for him to join me, but he shakes his head no. I pout again and turn my back on him.

When the band slows it down and everyone couples up, I turn back toward our table, but I’m suddenly gathered up in Weston’s arms—he’s here.

“Care to dance?” he asks.

“I thought that’s what I was doing.”

“And beautifully.”

He holds me so close, his hand low on my waist—basically on my ass but I love it. He holds my hand in his against his chest, and we move together to the music. It all falls away. It’s like there is nothing, not even music, only Weston and his arms that hold me so close and sure. My forehead is against his cheek, his breath light on my skin. I close my eyes and memorize the length of his fingers, the solid mass of his back and all the muscles that I just know lay beneath the lush fabric of his jacket.

Weston shifts, and I look up at him. The hard lines of his jaw and the softness of his lips draw me in—I need to kiss him. But Weston bypasses my lips and goes for my ear.

“Let’s get out of here,” he says, and I nod yes. “If there’s anyplace you don’t want to go, speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Home,” I say. “I don’t want to go home.”

“Then you won’t,” he says. He takes my hand and leads me off the dance floor. He drops three twenties at our table—more than enough for our two drinks and piece of cake—and leads me out the door.

Like I said, where he goes, I’m willing to follow.