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“Uh-uh,” Daff snapped, and before she knew it she was halfway across the dance floor, pushing her way through throngs of writhing people. She wasn’t sure what her endgame was—her only objective was to get their hands off Spencer!
“Spencer,” she barked when she reached the threesome, raising her voice so that he could hear her above the music. He was smiling at them. Why was he smiling at them? His head jerked up when he heard her voice, and his eyebrows rose clear to his hairline when he saw her folded arms and her scowl.
“What’s up, Daff?” he asked warily.
“Thought you might need a hand carrying those drinks,” she offered. And he lifted a powerful shoulder nonchalantly.
“I’m fine.”
Daff’s eyes tracked to the two women, one of whom still had a hand on Spencer’s arm. Her eyes lingered on that hand as she entertained dark thoughts of ripping each scarlet acrylic nail off those slender fingers. That would teach her to lay hands on Daff’s man.
Only he wasn’t her man. Was he? Not according to her own rules, and especially not after Spencer had ended things between them. He was a free agent—he could flirt with whomever he wanted, date anybody, sleep with every woman under the sun. Daff had no claim on him. She had revoked that right.
She ran a hand over her throbbing forehead. The tension and stress of the last few days, combined with the music and alcohol, had given her the worst headache.
“You okay?” Spencer shouted, shrugging off the woman’s hand to move closer to Daff. He completely ignored the other women, his attention wholly focused on Daff, and she choked back a sob as she recognized the look in his eyes as concern . . . for her.
His reaction was utterly instinctive, the behavior of a man who wanted to protect someone he cared about. This was the man Spencer was, the man he couldn’t help being, and Daff loved him for it.
She loved him!
She took a moment to process that thought. She examined the emotion from every angle and felt . . . relieved. Not panicked or terrified, but relieved. Because of course she loved him. How had she not seen that sooner? And how could she have tried to curb the very thing about Spencer that made him special? She had attempted to stifle his protective instinct by minimizing their relationship. By lying to herself and him and referring to what they had as a thing. In refusing to give it a name or any importance, she had basically communicated to him that he didn’t have the right to care about her, to worry about her, or to love her.
And Spencer wasn’t wired like that.
And seeing him with these women, Daff finally began to understand that perhaps she wasn’t wired like that, either. She wanted everybody to know that he was off-limits and belonged exclusively to her. Suddenly Daff found herself wanting those strings. She wanted this man so thoroughly bound to her that he would never get away again.
She gaped at him in slack-jawed bewilderment—the epiphany, so long in coming, sent her reeling—and it took a moment to register the alarm on his face or hear his words.
“—going to be sick?” he yelled, the music all but drowning the words.
“Uh, I-I’m fine,” she said, and he gave her another long, searching look.
“Great,” he said dismissively. “I’ve got to get these drinks back. See you later.”
And with that, he walked away. Without so much as a backward glance. Leaving Daff to feel completely abandoned. Despite knowing that this sense of loss she felt was entirely her own doing.
“So you’re Dahlia.” Lia trembled at the sound of the dark, silky voice murmuring directly into her ear. She immediately knew who the voice belonged to, of course—the man hadn’t taken his eyes off her since the stag party had collectively strutted into the nightclub an hour ago. She’d been expecting some kind of contact from him, and sure enough, here he was, standing so close she could smell his delicious aftershave and feel his breath stir her hair.
She shut her eyes, drew in a deep, fortitudinous breath, and turned to face him. Crumbs, he was much too close; if either of them inhaled too deeply, her chest would scrape against his. He was just four or so inches taller than her five foot seven, and—with her heels—their eyes were nearly level. He was smiling, and somehow that display of even white teeth did not make him seem approachable or friendly, but predatory.
It was disconcerting.
“Yes,” she replied. Not really wanting to talk with him. Thankfully the pulsing music and strobe lights made it almost impossible to have a decent conversation. So she gave him a wholly fake smile before dipping her head to take a sip of her drink. She drank too fast and then grimaced when the frozen margarita gave her brain freeze.
