I don’t respond to her question about who I am. I’ve had enough of this place and these people.
“Let’s go play darts, Z. It’s too crowded over here.” She dismisses me and turns her attention away, her lashes fluttering up at him as she runs a possessive hand over his shoulders. There’s a familiarity in her touch, as if she’s known him for a long time.
He shrugs, his eyes never leaving me. “You go on, Veronica. I’m sure my brother is looking for you.”
“He’s upstairs somewhere. I thought maybe we could hang out—”
“No,” he bites out.
Her face falls, a sullen expression settling in. She darts a glance at me before looking back at him. “But why—”
“I said go.”
She huffs and opens her mouth as if she might say something else but then decides against it, her teeth clamping together. “Fine.” She does a pivot and flounces off.
“Girlfriend?” I ask, watching her leave, trying to suss out what’s going on.
“Fuck no.”
This is when things get really weird.
Zack Morgan just stares. And stares.
Warm tendrils of heat slide over me at his scrutiny.
Then he frowns as if he can’t figure out what I am.
“I’m human,” I say, and it’s such an utterly ridiculous statement to make, but he doesn’t even blink.
We stand in the middle of the floor with bodies dancing around us, neither of us moving as his gaze moves from the top of my hair to the bottom of my black UGG boots, a gift from Mara. There’s a quizzical look on his face as he sizes me up, and a few ticks later, he physically winces as if something about me is…unpleasant.
But I’m not unpleasant.
I’m no beauty queen, but I’ve had the attention of attractive guys. Bennett is gorgeous, the little cheater, and according to Mara I look just like Mama did at my age with her pale creamy skin, heart-shaped face, and long blonde hair. Unfortunately, my eyes are my father’s, wide and thickly lashed, a blue-green color.
“You…” His brow knits as he searches for how to finish his sentence.
Someone dances into me with a hard bump, and I lunge forward again, my cheek pressing against his chest. His hands clasp my upper arms, steadying me as he sets me a few inches away from him.
“Sorry,” I say.
His eyes drift over my face, lingering on my lips, and I swallow. He drops my arms as if they’re hot, and I rub them briskly, acutely aware of his touch.
Strands of “You’re Beautiful” by James Blunt come over the speakers, and color rushes from my neck up to my face as I realize we’re the only ones on the dance floor not dancing.
“This place is crowded. I should go—”
“Would you like to dance?” he asks, interrupting me.
I frown. “You want to dance with me?”
“I do.” Inscrutable eyes rake over me as his expression shutters. His focus is still squarely on me as if I’m a magical creature—or a demon.
Maybe there’s something hanging out of my nose or my Pirate Red lipstick is smeared across my entire cheek and I’m completely unaware.
“Okay.” My hands reach up and curl around his shoulders, my fingers brushing at the hair there. His hands go to my hips, settling on top of my coat around my waist. We move around each other, almost warily, our bodies aligned in a slow rhythm, not entirely pressed together, yet the small space between us feels…electrified. I wonder how my skin would feel pressed against his if we closed that gap.
We’re in a bubble, the two of us, and everyone around us seems irrelevant—or at least that’s my perception. I’m not sure what his is, only that his gaze never leaves my face and the intensity makes me jittery.
“What’s your name?” he says with a scowl.
I huff out a laugh. Where’s the charming playboy everyone said he was?
“Sugar. My mama said it was a name for a girl who would be the life of the party.” I lift my shoulders in a shrug, looking away. “It didn’t work.”
“Ah, I hear a slight Southern accent. How did you end up in Sparrow Lake?”
My accent isn’t thick, not after years of living here, but it does stick out like a sore thumb among all these Midwesterners. “Moved here when my mom passed.”
“Any other family?”
I stare up at him. “You updating my Wikipedia page?”
He breaks our gaze, a flash of vulnerability in his before it’s quickly gone. “You favor someone I knew.”
Oh.
“Well, they’re not related to me. I don’t have any siblings or cousins on my mom’s side, and I look just like her. The family I do have is my dad’s and they’re in Alabama.” I pause. “I don’t speak to them.”
“Why?”
I shake my head. “That’s really none of your business.”
“Why?”
He gives me an insistent look, and out of sheer annoyance, I say, “They’re rich folk who think I’m white trash.”
He thinks about this, studying my face. “Sorry. That sucks. I’m Zack, by the way.”
I know. I nod.
“My friends call me Z.”
“I’m not a friend.”
“Yet.” His eyes go to my mouth and heat flares over my skin at the interest I see there. A blush creeps across my face.
“I’ve never seen you at one of these,” he says.
“Just trying new things.”
“Like stalking hockey players?”
My mouth opens and I almost stumble until he catches me.
“You were at the Tipsy Moose last week,” he says, a satisfied look on his face as he takes in my face. “You sat in the back. I played darts…you watched. I talked to a girl…you stared. You sat by yourself. Isn’t that right?”
My stomach flutters, recalling how packed that place was. The man has magical powers of observation. “Maybe we were just two people who happened to be at the same place at the same time. Maybe my eyes just happened to be on you when you looked at me.”
He continues as if I never said a word. “You’re also in my American poetry class. You wear a knit hat and those big glasses. Maybe that’s why I didn’t…” He stops, his voice trailing off. “You sit in the back.”
“And you sit in the front.”
“You would know.”
Shit! I blink rapidly “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Liar. I notice things—it’s one of my skills—and you were lurking behind that column when I came in…waiting for me.” His tone is silky, yet there’s a hint of accusation there. “My guess is you’re a jersey chaser, a new one since I’ve never noticed you here.”
Anger stirs at his arrogance, and my lips tighten. “I’d hardly call it lurking. and you were staring at me.”
“Maybe I was.” He halts our dancing when the music stops, but his hands are still on my hips and mine are still around his neck. It’s strange to still be holding on to him when it’s clear we’re sparring, but…but I don’t want to let him go. My hands cling to his shoulders, brushing across the soft leather of his jacket, and his fingers are digging into my waist. His touch isn’t unwanted. It’s tantalizing with a hint of dominance, as if he’s not going to let me out of his sight.