Page 53 of Lethal Attraction

“I can be two things.”

Reed snorts into his drink. The sound is so unexpected I turn toward him in shock. His mouth curves against the rim of the glass, eyes bright with laughter he’s trying to suppress.

And suddenly I don’t care that I’m being interrogated. I don’t care that my entire life is one wrong move away from catastrophe. Because Reed is looking at me like I’m the funniest person in the room.

Like he’s proud I’m here.

Like this, sitting in a noisy bar with his friends while Taryn accuses me of organized crime, is exactly where he wants me.

The realization hits hard enough to steal my breath.

Taryn squints at me again. “One more question.”

I sigh. “Go ahead.”

“If you were hypothetically in the mafia—”

“I’m not.”

“—would you tell us?”

I smile pleasantly. “No.”

She slams her hands on the table. “SHE ADMITTED IT.”

“She didn’t admit anything!” Reed defends me.

“Okay, okay,” Emma says as she tries to distract her drunk wife. “That’s enough. I’m sure Thalia would love to talk about other things besides being mob-affiliated.”

“I have a teardrop tattoo under my makeup,” I lie.

Taryn points at me, her head swiveling between me and her wife, who only deadpans at her.

Reed grips the back of my neck, pulling me closer to him as he whispers in my ear. “You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

I bite my bottom lip. “Very much so.”

“Taryn is going to have nightmares about you, Little Devil,” he muses as he brushes my hair behind my ear.

“She wouldn’t be the first person to dream about me,” I whisper huskily.

The corners of his mouth twitch into that heart-stopping half-smirk as our inside joke is shared between us. Overhead, the song shifts to I Wanna Be Yours by the Arctic Monkeys, and it creates a simultaneous reaction between us.

“I love this song,” we say in unison before pausing in shock at the others’ confessions.

“You know the Arctic Monkeys?” he asks, pleasantly surprised.

“Duh,” I roll my eyes. “I have good taste.”

He rolls his lips in, stifling his laughter as he rises from his chair and takes my hand.

My eyes widen as I glance at his appendage like it’s a snake. Which, honestly, is ridiculous. Hands are normal. People hold them every day. Society practically runs on handshakes. But Reed Bellamy’s hand looks unfairly capable of ruining my entire nervous system.

I’m sweating.

“What?” he asks, laughter flickering in his eyes. “Don’t tell me you can’t dance.”

“I can dance,” I say quickly, my whole heart slamming against my ribs as he coaches me up.