Page 39 of Falling for the Grumpy Bad Boy

The low-key spot Conroy had suggested turned out to be one of South Beach’s premiere nightclub destinations, complete with velvet ropes, intimidating bouncers, and a line of hopeful patrons that stretched around the block. I was pretty sure I saw more vag and nipples in that line than I had at a strip club I went to a couple of years ago. How were they not getting ticketed for indecent exposure? The outfits they wore were basically strings and scraps of fabric.

Damn, Miami was wild.

Somehow, probably through a combination of strategic name-dropping and generous tipping, we had managed to bypass the wait and secure a VIP table with perfect views of both the dance floor and the ocean beyond.

The music was loud enough to rattle my ribcage. And the lighting was an assault of strobes and neon. I was pretty sure it was intentional. It made it impossible to really see a person. The crowd was exactly what you would expect from a Miami hotspot on a Thursday night. Lots of beautiful people wearing very little clothing and spending obscene amounts of money on overpriced drinks.

In other words, my personal version of hell.

But none of that mattered because Clementine had just returned from the bar, and she looked dangerously, devastatingly beautiful.

The dress she’d chosen was a simple black number that hugged every curve of her body like it had been painted on. The neckline was modest enough to be tasteful but low enough to hint at the curves beneath, while the hemline ended just above her knees, showcasing legs that seemed to go on for miles. But what really caught my attention was the elegant line of her neck and the delicate collarbones that disappeared beneath the dress’s fabric.

She was easily the most beautiful woman I had ever seen, and judging by the way every man in her vicinity kept glancing in her direction, I wasn’t the only one who noticed.

The thought should have been flattering. She was technically part of my team, and her attracting positive attention reflected well on all of us. Instead, I felt something dark and possessive unfurling in my chest every time another man looked at her like she was something they wanted to taste.

I did not do jealous. Jealousy was for insecure teenagers and men who couldn’t trust their partners. I was neither of those things, so why was I fighting the urge to position myself between Clem and every other male in the club?

She spent the last hour charming everyone who had approached our table, even the bartender who’d personally delivered our drinks with an extra-bright smile reserved just for her. She had a natural warmth that drew people in. Everyone gravitated toward her.

It was maddening.

“She’s something else, isn’t she?” Conroy said, following my gaze to where Clem was laughing at something one of her new admirers had said.

I caught myself thinking of her as my protégée and mentally shook my head. She wasn’t my anything. She was just a young woman who happened to be observing our operations for educational purposes. Someone who might learn something useful if she paid attention and kept her mouth shut.

Right?

“She’s fine,” I said before taking a larger sip of my whiskey than was probably wise.

Conroy snorted. “Fine? Rhett, you haven’t taken your eyes off her all night. If looks could kill, half the men in this place would be dead on the floor.”

Before I could formulate a response to that uncomfortable observation, Simone leaned across the table, raising her voice to be heard over the music.

“This is actually fun!” she shouted, her usual composure giving way to something looser and more relaxed. The cocktails were clearly having their intended effect. “When is the last time we did something like this?”

“Never,” I replied honestly. Team building had always been limited to post-service dinners and the occasional holiday party. I even took them to a Broadway show once. I had never seen the point in socializing outside of work. It only complicated professional relationships and created opportunities for poor judgment.

Like the poor judgment I was contemplating right now, watching Clem move to the music while she talked to her new friends.

Guy friends.

The little green monster was rearing its ugly head and every swallow of whiskey was making him louder.

Conroy had been making increasingly desperate attempts to impress Simone all evening. She seemed amused by his efforts more than anything else, rolling her eyes at his lame attempts most of the time. The failed attempts were almost painful to watch. I almost felt bad for the guy.

Clem appeared at our table, slightly breathless from her social rounds and glowing with the kind of energy that came from being surrounded by admiration.

“You guys are being way too serious for a place like this,” she said a little too loudly. “We’re in Miami Beach! The music is incredible, the atmosphere is amazing, and you’re all sitting here like you’re at a business meeting.”

“Some of us prefer business meetings,” I muttered, earning a laugh from Simone and an exasperated look from Conroy.

Clem’s attention focused on me with laser-like intensity. “When is the last time you danced?”

“I don’t dance.”

“Everyone dances. You just haven’t found the right partner yet.” She extended her hand toward me, her expression shifting from playful to challenging. “Come on, Rhett. One song. What’s the worst that could happen?”