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“I pass.”

“You can’t pass!” she fires back instantly, way too triumphant. Her wine glass jingles as she leans back on the couch.

“I don’t dance. It’s not in the contract,” I try.

“Which explains why you’re terrible and I still can’t match you with anyone.” She takes another sip—queen of arrogance—and her cheeks are flushed from the wine. “And you can’t keep hiding behind that stupid contract.”

Crack.

I feel something pinch in my chest.

It’s nothing. It’s fine. I’m fine.

Everyone holds back a laugh.

I don’t.

I’m too busy holding myself together.

Why does that line bother me so much?

I’ve been told way worse.

Way worse.

Jesus, I seriously need to get a grip.

I hold her stare.

She holds mine.

The tension sparks between us so loudly I swear I can hear it.

And then the unexpected happens.

Sloane stands up. Wobbles a little.

Walks right toward me.

Pokes a finger into my chest. Her closeness, her touch, her perfume—everything hits me at once. I swear I have an out-of-body experience.

Is she an angel?

No.

More like the angel who convinces you to sin.

“Then watch and learn.”

And that’s when she kills me.

A slow, deep, sensual beat starts playing.

And she…

starts moving her hips.

Slowly.