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The worst part?
He could dance better than I could.
“See?” he said in a low voice, lips brushing my earlobe. “It’s not so bad.”
“It’s terrible,” I murmured. “I’m scarred for life.”
“Yet here you are. Dancing. With me.”
“Awful choice, really.”
“You didn’t have a choice.” He twirled me out, flashed a grin, then pulled me back into him.
I slammed into his body with the finesse of a bowling ball and looked up at him. “And I resent that.”
“You’ll live.” His grin reached his eyes and made them shine, and he tilted his face down so that our noses almost brushed. “You’re not complaining nearly enough for someone who’s hating every second of this.”
“I’m biding my time so I can murder you while you sleep,” I replied. “Strike while the iron’s hot.”
“Revenge is a dish best served cold,” he retorted.
“You’re right. Is there anyone here you hate that I can make out with?”
Sebastian stopped, ending our dance, and stared down at me with his lips twisted to one side in a somewhat sardonic smile. “No. But even if there were, I wouldn’t let you do it anyway.”
“Let me? I’ll have you know that nobody lets me do anything. I do what I want. I’m an independent woman.”
“All right.” He clasped my waist and turned. “That guy over there. With the dark hair, red tie, drinking the… is that a cocktail?”
“Martini.”
“Drinking the martini,” Seb continued. “Like he’s James fucking Bond. Darren Greenwood. One of my cousins. As my friend from England would say, a total knob.”
“And?” I was more interested in the fact he had a friend from England. That was one hot accent…
“And I don’t like him. Go make out with him.”
I stared up at him. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You asked.”
“It was a joke.”
He twirled me out to arm’s length and brought me back in, slamming me against his body. “It wasn’t funny,” he said into my ear. “Jokes should be funny.”
“Well, this whole weekend isn’t funny, but here I am,” I shot back.
“You’re so fun when you’re feisty. Even more so now that I know you don’t really hate me.” He gripped my hips and pulled them against his. Our bodies swayed together, and our lips were only centimeters apart. All I had to do was stumble and we’d be kissing.
Just like that.
That easily.
That simply.
I had to swallow back a smartass retort to his last comment because there was every chance I’d either let out a little whimper or accidentally on purpose fall into him just to kiss him.
Because he was right.
Sebastian was completely and utterly, annoyingly right.
Now that I knew the truth, I couldn’t hate him.
I didn’t hate him.
And you know what?
I wished I did.
Because when he twirled me out and back into his body for the hundredth time, my heart thundered, and a shiver ran down my spine.
And that was one thousand times more complicated than hating him.CHAPTER THIRTEEN – SEBASTIANrule thirteen: faking it is easier if you have a little bit of reality to draw upon.“It’s that one. Definitely that one.” Holley fumbled with the cards as she attempted to take them out of her purse.
“That’s your credit card,” I said dryly and pulled the room key from my back pocket with a grin, brandishing it in her direction.
She gasped and pointed. “I don’t have one of those!”
“A room key?”
“No, an ass pocket!” She shoved me in the arm, and I stumbled through the door, laughing. “God sake.”
I was still laughing as she stomped into the room and kicked off her shoes with the elegance of a drunken turtle on a tightrope. One of them almost hit the coffee table where a glass full of water was sitting on a coaster, and she stilled, then slowly turned to look at me.
“Oopsie.”
“Indeed,” I muttered. “Are you getting changed first, or am I?”
“I can change in the bathroom.” She waved her hand in my direction and used the back of the sofa to stop herself from stumbling too much.
“Why don’t I get changed in the bathroom and you stick to the bedroom? Less things for you to bump into in there.”
“Excellent idea!” She hiccupped and clapped her hand over her mouth. “I swear, I didn’t even drink that much.”
The best part about that was that it wasn’t a drunk person insisting they hadn’t drunk that much when they were three glasses of wine and four cocktails in.
She’d had three drinks, and one of those had been with dinner.
Holley was a lightweight.
And I was having the best time laughing at her.
“Okay, I have my clothes, so hurry up, because I don’t want you to see me naked.”
“I wouldn’t mind seeing you naked,” I teased, joining her in the bedroom and pulling some sweats out of my suitcase.
She groaned. “Gray sweats? Do you have to?”
“What’s wrong with gray sweats?” I asked, knowing full well exactly what she was about to say.
