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“But we don’t have to dance,” Alina hurried to say.
Hurried because he’d been glaring at the guitarist. Not deliberate. He’d just been thinking about the damn incidents in her life. To him, they looked like attacks that had been designed to terrify her.
He didn’t want Alina terrified.
His gaze swung back to her. His buddy Ron had picked up her car, and Midas had taken Alina to dinner. The woman had to eat, didn’t she? No sense in canceling their plans. Especially since he needed to stay close to her.
Dancing with her would put him extremely close.
Temptingly close.
His right hand flattened on the tabletop. “I’m not a very good dancer.”
“I don’t think you have to be,” she assured him. “The other three couples are pretty much just swaying back and forth.” That bright smile of hers came again. The one that disarmed him and also made him want to go out and freaking slay a dragon for her or some stupid shit like that.
“This is not me,” he growled.
She blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry. That’s fine.” Her smile dimmed, then blossomed again. “We absolutely don’t have to dance. Why don’t you, um, why don’t you tell me about yourself? Your life? Your family?”
This is not me…He hadn’t meant the dancing. Though, yeah, he was a horrible dancer. He basically lumbered along and didn’t follow a beat at all. When you were his size, grace didn’t tend to be your strong suit. Brute strength? He had that one covered.
This is not me…He’d meant the wanting to slay dragons BS. He wasn’t a knight or some guardian angel. He was a bodyguard who was doing his job.
So guard that sexy body of hers. “Let’s dance.” He shoved back his chair and stood. Dancing was far better than the alternative. The alternative in question?
Telling her about his life. His family.
Hi. I’m Midas Monroe, the son of a serial killer. My dear old dad is currently rotting away in a maximum-security facility. Who did he kill? Multiple women. He broke their necks. Oh, and for extra fun, he would stab them in the heart after he broke their necks. See, a broken neck doesn’t always kill the victim. Guess my dad learned that lesson early on. So he evolved as twisted killers do.
And he also tried to frame me for his crimes.
No big deal.
Alina peered up at him. “Are you sure? I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. If dancing isn’t your thing, we can skip it.”
She was so freaking nice. His hand extended toward her. “There is nothing more I want right now than to dance with you.”
Delight lit her features. She hopped to her feet and put her hand in his. Of course, his hand swallowed hers, but he was sure to use care. Not to grip her fingers too hard. Not to squeeze too tightly.
He led them onto the dance floor, and when he caught another jerk staring at Alina’s ass, Midas sent the guy a go-to-hell glare.
The man whipped his stare away from Alina.
The woman did look extra good. No ice princess tonight. Instead, she wore a pair of jeans that hugged her tight ass, low black boots, and a dark sweater. Her hair tumbled down her shoulders and back. It curled. One of those long, twisting curl things that women could do with their hair that just confused and impressed the hell out of men.
Soft red lipstick covered her lips. Smoky shadow made her eyes seem even darker.
He stopped in the middle of the dance floor and pulled her against him.
So delicate. He was still having trouble getting used to her size. When she was on the ice, she’d seemed bigger. Stronger.
Off the ice, she felt too breakable.
Her hands curled around his waist.
His…hell, he put his hands on her. Enjoyed the feel of her far too much. When he inhaled, he caught her scent. Vanilla cream? Something that sure smelled good enough to eat.
He realized that Alina had started to sway in time with the strumming guitar while he was standing still. He lumbered to the left. Then the right.
