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“Very,” Lucy says, looking at Mooney dreamily, making me think there’s something else going on under the table that we can’t see. Watching those two, well into their 40s, gives me hope that I’ll still have it in me to flirt with my guy—whoever that may be—when I’m their age.
Ruby’s about fifteen years older than Nick and is not shy at all about showing skin. She wears a Christmasy red strapless velvet body-con dress with a furry neckline that accents her bodacious rack. They order different desserts, which gives Ruby the excuse to feed her former-exotic-dancer husband from her plate.
“Babe, these are all your recipes. I know what they taste like,” Nick chuckles, taking a bite of offered peanut butter pie. The way he stares at his wife, he seems way less interested in dessert than he is ready to take her to the nearest private corner to rail her until Santa comes.
Wouldn’t that be nice?
Dang. Why did I tell Noah I wasn’t interested in a relationship?
Oh, right. Because I’m leaving. Probably. And because I’ve been hurt and I don’t want to be controlled by a man. Even though Noah is not like Logan. Not in the least.
I know I have my reasons for keeping this thing casual. But the reasons are growing increasingly muddy now.
ChapterNine
Noah
When Ursula heads to the restroom with Ruby and Lucy, I meander into the hallway and check the bidding on the luxury weekend in Nashville.
To my chagrin, several people have bid on it, and the price is now up to $500.
I check my bank account on my phone and grimace. It’ll be tight, but I should be able to squeeze by. If I eat ramen for the next two weeks.
I up the bid to $550 and head back to the ballroom.
Ursula is a strange and fascinating soul. Every time she does anything, she feels the need to explain herself. I suspect it has something to do with her ex, and it makes me wish I could get one punch in. Just one jab.
“Sorry I took so long in the bathroom,” she says, scurrying to my side and hooking her arm around mine.
“Everything come out okay?”
She squawks. “Noah! Oh my gosh, are we nine years old?”
The way she snorts when she laughs makes me want to propose right the heck now.
The band starts up a slow, romantic arrangement of an old holiday classic, and I ask her to dance.
“I promise I won’t make any bathroom jokes.”
“I’d still dance with you either way, but don’t get any ideas,” she says.
My arm settles around her waist, and we join our opposite hands. It feels as natural as two people who’ve been slow dancing together for eons.
The longer we dance, the looser she becomes, relaxing against me. I pull her closer, and she glances up at me shyly.
“You're a good dancer.” Her throat bobs.
“Thanks. I don’t really know what I’m doing other than making an excuse to touch you and smell your hair.”
The vibrations from her laughter make my heart race.
Her cheek brushes against my jaw. The perfect height. The perfect match. My heart hammers as we move to the music, the vanilla scent of her hair warming me to my core.
I lean back, and she looks up at me in curiosity.
“I don’t care much for kissing in public, but I really want to kiss you again,” I tell her.
“Me neither, and same.”
