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“Oh.” I’m an idiot.
“Was she really singing on the table at the bar? Kevin said she was fair belting it out,” Reed asks.
“She was. Do you have any idea why she’s doing what she’s doing?”
“With Eliot, who knows?” He opens one of the menus. “A burger sounds good.”
“That does sound good. I’ll have the same,” Rand agrees.
“You haven’t heard Eliot say anything about what she’s thinking or if something’s happened to make what everyone tells me is a reasonably responsible woman act out?”
“My best guess?” Reed says, lowering his voice. I nod. Anything he can tell me would be more than I have right now. “I would guess it has something to do with turning thirty soon. It seems to have her freaking out.”
“Seriously? All this is a mid-life crisis?” This is insanity.
twelve
ELIOT
I’ve managedto avoid Owen for almost a week. Not because I particularly want to, but because I’ve backed myself into a self-imposed corner where we’re not quite friends but we’re more than polite acquaintances. After all, I don’t think I’ve ever brought up my private parts or gotten off in the shower of a mere acquaintance.
There’s also the added nightmare of seeing him around town knowing full well he’s the only “friendish” person I have ever kissed like my soul would combust if my lips weren’t pressed to his.
“Eliot!” Austen calls from halfway down the street. Did I mention that I feel morally obligated to continue showing up for dance lessons? With any luck, Owen has a shift to work and won’t be able to make it tonight. That way, I don’t have to spend an evening of torture as his large body presses against mine.
“Hey,” I say, reaching my sisters outside the door. “’Sup?”
“So much verbal sophistication, it blows my mind away,” Austen teases.
“It’s called language conservation; you should try it sometime.” Yeah, I don’t know if that’s a thing.
“Still hungover and sexually frustrated from last weekend, I see,” Brontë adds.
“Shut your pie hole,” I answer. I spent too many years being threatened with a bar of soap to say what I’m really thinking. Just because not all of us wind up with the hot guy from high school or the sexy billionaire doesn’t mean we’re sexually frustrated. Okay, so I even rolled my eyes at myself.
“Or we could go inside,” Austen suggests. “I’m pretty sure there’s a certain deputy that will be relieved you’re here. Missi is already doing the feel his arms and comment on how strong he is giggle thing.”
I can feel a spike of anger shoot through me. Am I already feeling territorial about a man I’m not even thinking of dating? Well, we have kissed. I’m sure that’s made it to the next county over by now. Bitch should have heard about it. Oh, I’m about to cut her for moving in on my territory.
“Jesus, jealous much?” Brontë whispers. “Tone it down,Fatal Attraction.”
“You don’t even know what that movie was about. Besides, I have no claim on him.”
“Then stop mumbling about cutting a bitch.”
“Can we just dance?” I huff. “Let’s do this.” I push past my sisters into the room. My gaze immediately finds Owen. Missi has two seconds to remove her hand from his shirt before I remove it for her. Nope. Not my problem.
“I love the enthusiasm,” Mrs. Bradford says with a clap. “Everyone find your partners and head out on the floor. If you don’t have one, don’t worry, we’ll find one for you.” And because I’m a masochist apparently, I stomp across the room, grab Owen by the wrist, and pull him to the dance floor.
“Wonderful.” Mrs. Bradford claps her hands again. “We’re going to start with a demonstration of the Latin dances we are learning today. Whenever you’re ready, Owen.”
My eyes must grow to the size of saucers because he smirks down at me. What have I done? I never agreed to be the other half of his forbidden dance.
“Try to get out of this,” he whispers. Then he nods his head and the music starts. Slowly, he runs his hand from the back of my neck down my spine to my ass before pulling me tight against him. I slam against his chest, and he takes the hand I’ve pressed flat against it. His strong thigh presses between mine.
“Relax your hips,” he whispers. Then, we’re dancing. Or dry humping, I’m not sure.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I admit quietly.
