Emeline’s grip on her instrument tightened.Of coursehe came to correct her form. “I thought you weren’t stalking me.”
He emerged from the shadows and held out his hand. “I can show you, if you’d like.”
Emeline froze like a startled deer, staring at his outstretched palm.
Was he asking her to dance?
Here? In the dark?
His eyes were earnest as he waited. Swallowing tightly, Emeline flipped the ukulele over her shoulder, so it hung flat across her back, and placed her hand in his.
Hawthorne’s palm settled against the curve of her waist, his skin warm through her silk dress. Emeline placed her hand on his shoulder, the fine wool of his sweater scratching her palm.
“You’re too far away,” he said, drawing her closer. His smell was everywhere: leather and wool and pine. Ensnaring her. “We need a tempo. Can you hum the song you were singing?”
A blush crept up her neck. How much had he heard?
“It’s one of yours, isn’t it?”
Emeline’s blush deepened. Her face was certainly crimson now. To hide it, she stared down at her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her gown.
“I liked it,” he said. “Very much.”
Her pulse quickened at the compliment.
“It’s not entirely mine,” she admitted.
Instead of pressing her, he nodded, then began waltzing to an invisible tempo, emphasizing the first beat. In the silence, he danced her around and around the room.
“Joel seems nice, by the way.”
Emeline stumbled. That was the last thing in the world she expected him to say.
Hawthorne waited for her to recover, then continued. “Handsome. Suave. Good with a guitar.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Your boyfriend. I met him the other night when I delivered your message.”
Right.The thought of Hawthorne meeting Joel—of them talking to each other—made her feel unwell.
“He’s … not my boyfriend.”
Hawthorne arched a brow. “Are you certain of that?”
She shot him a look. Which was a mistake. It only encouraged him.
“We spoke of you. According to Joel, you make himveryhappy.”
She bristled at his mocking tone but couldn’t help the blush creeping up her neck. “Bite me, Hawthorne.”
The corner of his mouth curved upwards. His eyes glittered, as if he was imagining doing exactly that.
In the silence, his gaze traced over her. Moving slowly across her jaw, down her throat, and along her collarbone, stopping to linger on the curve of her shoulder. As if showing her all the places he longed to bite most.
Emeline couldn’t help but imagine it: His teeth on her bare skin. Soft little bites in between kisses.
Heat bloomed through her.Is he messing with me?
