Royal wiggles her way in between us and places her hands on Jameson’s pecs, pushing him backward. She mouths something to him I can’t quite hear and don’t try to. The door swings closed and I’m left alone. For a moment it’s like the last twenty minutes was a movie and now I’m back in reality where I don’t have a new best friend and said new best friend’s brother isn’t the most gorgeous man I’ve ever seen in my life. With the most incredible eyes. And the sexiest fucking smirk. And a body full of possibilities, and he obviously comes from good stock because his sister is pretty awesome, and I’m just desperate enough to push this and figure him out.
“Reality,” I mutter and get ahold of myself. I still have fabric riding up in places that are illegal in several states and suddenly a very full bladder that I need to deal with. Taking a deep breath, I carefully walk to the first stall and maneuver as best as possible into position. When I’m done and fairly certain I didn’t get this stupid pretty dress wet, I go to pull the thong back up and pause. It’s made of a beautiful red satin that would do wonders should anyone have had the chance to see it. I hate to dispose of the damn thing, but it’s just so damn uncomfortable. I can’t even pinpoint if it’s too small, too large, or just cut wrong for my ass. I’m no fan of going commando, but the alternative is far less appealing, so I go with it and remove the thong, flush the toilet, and look for the trash. I just have to dispose of the stupidest underwear alive and then wash my hands and I can make a graceful exit with nobody being any wiser that I’m strutting my stuff free as a bird. Only that’s not how life works.
The bathroom door opens, and before I can think about it, I toss the stupid thong into the trash and hope nobody looks too hard in the wastebasket. Quickly, I turn on the faucet, nab some soap, and proceed to wash my hands, all the while pretending I didn’t just throw away a perfectly good, but evil, pair of panties.
Jameson walks in with hard set shoulders and a sneaky smile on his face. I watch him carefully in the mirror and eye his movements as he comes up behind me. Like the paranoid head case that I am, my eyes dart to the wastebasket and then up to his. He’s so close but not touching me even a little bit, which is equal parts disappointing and smart. If he touches me, it’s going to be all over in a matter of moments, and I’m not the kind of girl to hook up with dudes in fancy restrooms at charity balls, so no. Even if it would fulfill my firefighter fantasy. Well, sort of. We’d actually need a fire pole to do it justice.
He can’t touch me. He just can’t. There’s sexy, and then there’s slutty. Sexy is getting him to ask me out and then thanking him for dinner in a horizontal fashion. Slutty is getting banged by a stranger in a fancy bathroom while his sister is God only knows where.
“List ’em,” he says with a determined gaze. I finish up washing my hands and turn off the faucet but don’t move otherwise. I stand in my stupid expensive designer heels Mom and I went shopping for a few weeks ago and try to focus on everything but the way his eyes bore into mine. He’s intense and beautiful and just . . . everything. And I don’t even know him. Lust at first sight is the absolute worst because it burns the hottest, lasts the shortest, and hurts the most.
“Pardon?” I ask with a shaky breath.
“Your demands. List ’em.”
Suddenly self-conscious and feeling off balance from the champagne I guzzled while enduring Dad and one of his business partners talking shop, I take a deep breath and focus in on his eyes. The sex-kitten feeling has since passed, and left in its wake is this intense need to keep his attention. I give Jameson a soft smile and think about what I want.
Very faintly, I can hear the music from the ball room as it changes from a cheesy slow song to a badass slow song that breaks my heart. It’s all about the possibility of finding “the one” at the worst time ever, fighting for them, and having it fall apart before it even really begins. It’s tragic and oh so beautiful. Jameson seems to recognize it, too, as a small smile comes to his lips.
“Dance with me.”
“And?”
“Just that. Dance with me. I love this song. So you’re going to dance with me, and then we’re going to walk out of here and pretend this never happened. You never followed me in here, and I never acted like a crazy hooker.”
“Maybe I like crazy hookers,” he says. He raises his hand and turns it so the backs of his fingers touch the back of my neck so lightly that I second-guess what I’m feeling. A shiver runs through me. I try to fight my reaction to it but fail miserably, and I break out in goose flesh.
“Maybe I want something more than a dance with a beautiful, door-blocking woman in a bathroom who comes on to men she doesn’t know.”
“And maybe I just want one dance to my favorite song.” I slowly pivot to face him. I’m only here for the summer, and then it’s back to school in New Orleans.
He drops his hand to my hip and leans in. His other hand finds its way to my other hip. With a deep breath and an acute awareness of how bad this is going to hurt later, I wrap my hands around his neck, and he guides us away from the sinks.