Page 38 of Spring Break Fling

“But that’s where you were,” she said. “And you looked right at home.”

I shrugged. “I don’t mind going out on occasion.”

“When you’re on the prowl?”

I offered a half smile. “Yeah, something like that.”

Hannah rolled her eyes at my response. She leaned back against the vinyl seat as she surveyed the dimly lit bar with more interest. “And why did you bring me here?”

“Because this place is real,” I said. “It’s not about putting on airs or spending a fortune just to be seen. It’s about good drinks, better company, and sometimes, the best stories. And on nights like tonight, we’ll get to hear a live band.”

Her gaze moved to the corner where the guys were setting up. “I see a lot of hair.”

“They are a rock band.”

“Oh joy. The eighties. My fave.”

“Hey! Don’t knock it till you’ve tried it,” I said, grinning.

She rolled her eyes again but they held humor in them, too.

Not long after, the band started to play. It was loud, filling every corner, vibrating through the soles of our shoes. I watched Hannah’s reaction closely. Her initial resistance seemed to melt a bit as the guitarist played a particularly impressive solo.

“You have to admit, they’re pretty good,” I said over the noise.

“I’ll admit nothing yet,” she shouted back, but there was a hint of a smile.

When they started playing a ballad, I didn’t give her the chance to argue. I grabbed her hand and dragged her onto the dance floor.

“Nikko, no, I don’t dance⁠—”

“Sure you do.”

I spun her around, pulling her close, and for a second, she looked like a deer caught in headlights. But then something shifted. Maybe it was the music, maybe it was the whiskey, maybe it was the fact that I wasn’t giving her a choice.

She started moving, tentatively at first, then with more confidence. Her hips swayed, her hands gripped my shoulders, and her laugh—God, her laugh—lit up the whole damn bar.

Watching her was like watching a wildfire. From a few sparks, she now burned bright and hot, and I couldn’t look away. Hannah was shedding her uptight skin and was becoming the woman who I’d taken home that night.

As the song wound down, the crowd applauded and shouted for more. It energized the band. They dove into another upbeat track. I held on to Hannah, not ready to retreat from the dance floor just yet. She didn’t pull away.

“How in the hell do you dance to this?” she shouted over the music.

“You just let yourself feel and your body will know what to do.”

We danced through several more songs, each one livelier than the last. The band’s enthusiasm never waned. It was hard not to move. It wasn’t club music. It wasn’t bumping and grinding, although there was some of that. Hannah’s initial reluctance had completely disappeared.

By the time we settled back into our booth, she was flushed and smiling, a faint sheen of sweat on her skin.

“Admit it,” I said, leaning back with a grin. “You’re having fun.”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “It’s not the worst night of my life.”

“High praise.”

We talked—about nothing and everything. She told me stories about her uptight office, and I told her about some of the crazier clients I’d had over the years.

“Wait, wait,” she said, laughing so hard she could barely get the words out. “You actually tattooed a guy’s girlfriend’s face on his⁠—”