My heart beats double time when I spot Nick’s headlights pulling into my driveway promptly at nine. With butterflies tap dancing in my stomach, I dart down the stairwell. I mumble a goodbye to my dad before curling my hand around the handle of our front door.
I freeze when my dad grumbles, “Wait a minute.”
My nervous eyes shift to my dad’s office. He’s in the process of absorbing my super short, skin-tight red dress, and sky-high stiletto heels. A vein in his neck works overtime before his worried gaze lifts to my face. I eye him with suspicion when he stands from his chair and walks around his desk. “Are you going to introduce me?”
The doorbell rings, breaking the thick stench of awkwardness. “Please, Daddy,” I beg. I don’t want him to embarrass me in front of Nick.
“A real man has no problems meeting his date’s father,” Dad responds while finalizing the last steps between us.
“It isn’t a date; he’s just a friend.”
My dad crosses his arms in front of his rounded stomach, his stance advising I’m not allowed to leave without a proper introduction.
“Fine!”
With a huff, I crack open the front door. Nick is already halfway back to his truck. Upon hearing the door creak open, his puzzled gaze drifts back to the house. Excitement slicks my skin when his eyes leisurely scan my party-ready dress.
His seductive grin is wiped right off his face when my dad steps into view. He heads for Nick with his hand held out in greeting and his lips set in a hard line. “Michael Murphy, Jenni’s dad.” He shakes Nick’s hand so firmly, Nick’s body shudders.
“Nick, uh, Nicholas Holt.”
I try not to giggle at the rattle of Nick’s vocal cords. It’s ridiculous that my dad has made him nervous, but it's also endearing. When his freaked-out eyes turn to me, I can’t help the smile that crosses my face. Inwardly giggling, I save a petrified Nick from my dad’s grasp, then hightail it to his truck, just as grateful to skip the dreaded meet-the-parents routine as he is.
“Thank you, Daddy,” I whisper from Nick’s truck before slipping into the passenger seat. “Don’t wait up.”
Nick remains quiet for the first five miles of our trip to Ravenshoe. I don’t mind. It gives me plenty of time to study his profile. He’s a very handsome man with defined cheekbones, a strong, prominent jawline, alluring eyes, and a luscious thick mane of hair.
But unfortunately, even with him being ravishingly handsome, I can’t miss the freaked-out expression on his face. He has swallowed several times in a row the last five minutes, and he keeps rubbing his hands down his jean-covered thighs, no doubt to remove sweat.
Certain I know what has him rattled, I say, “I’m sorry about my dad.”
Air blasts out of his nose. “He doesn’t own a gun, does he?”
I quirk my lips. “I don’t think so.”
His eyes widen as his throat works hard to swallow.
“Does he need one?” My voice is laced with cheekiness.
He scans my body. When his eyes return to my face, he smiles a heart-stopping grin. “Yeah, he does.”
My heart does a weird flippy thing when he grabs my wrist to drag me over to his side of the bench seat. I remain cradled under his arm until we pull into the Dungeon parking lot forty minutes later. The place is so bustling, the line to enter stretches halfway around the block.
A grin curls on my lips when Nick runs around his truck to help me down. My killer high heels and super tight dress make it nearly impossible for me to step down, but an average man wouldn’t think to help. My heart thrashes against my ribs when his assistance has my body gliding along his. His build is stronger than it looks. I don’t miss the hard bumps in his stomach, much less the impressive muscle below his belt.
Remaining quiet, Nick guides us straight to the club’s entrance, not bothering to stand in the line with the rest of the patrons. He ignores the annoyed gasps of the partygoers queued outside as he makes a beeline for the bouncer I had a run-in with months ago.
“Travis,” Nick greets him, strolling past him.
Travis’s lips straighten when his narrowed gaze zooms in on Nick’s hand clasped around mine. We weave through a mass of sweaty bodies dancing in the packed club until we reach a large mahogany bar on the far wall. The smell of sweat and alcohol lingering in the air is intoxicating.
Nick releases my hand so he can gesture to a female bartender serving rowdy patrons halfway down the bar. Even though it's still early, the Dungeon is jam-packed with clientele. Upon spotting Nick’s request for assistance, the petite bartender makes her way to us, ignoring the two dozen or more patrons vying for her attention.
Goosebumps break across my arms when Nick whispers into my ear, “What did you want to drink?”
“I’m not twenty-one,” I inform him quietly, not wanting anyone to overhear me.
He chuckles. “I know that; neither am I for another few months, but age doesn’t count here.” He runs the back of his hand down my inflamed cheeks before asking again, “What would you like to drink?”
