“Like what?”
Connor shrugs. “Gambling? Hookers? Hell, this is Sam we’re talking about. It could be anything.”
I swallow the rest of my wine and settle the glass on the bar.
Sam’s at his table by the dance floor, nodding as his father tells him something. I think Connor’s right to be worried. There’s something different about Sam tonight. He’s distant. Distracted. Again, he seems . . . heartbroken.
Could it be that Sam—a notorious player—has allowed someone close enough to his heart to break it? Or is my loneliness making me see things that aren’t there?
That doesn’t explain the money, though.
“So we have a deal?” Connor asks. “You’ll forget that Della told you anything?”
“Sure.” I nod to the bartender, who refills my glass. God bless him and enablers everywhere.
Connor’s shoulders sag. “Good. I know it’s none of my business who you sleep with, but you can do better than a player like Sam.”
“I didn’t say anything about not sleeping with him.” I take another swallow of liquid courage as Connor grimaces. “Oh, stop acting like I’m some vestal virgin who needs protecting.”
“Connor!” Della calls. “There you are! Come dance with me!”
I shoo him away. “Go have fun.”
I wait until Sam’s family has evacuated their table, then make my way over to him. He’s sitting back in his seat, legs spread wide, rolling a bottle of beer between his hands as he watches the drunken wedding guests go “to the left” then “to the right.” My own table cleared out earlier, but I said I wanted to stay and dance a little. In truth, I just wanted Sam.
I turn my chair to face the dance floor, like his, and sit. He looks over at me, and his gaze snags on my crossed legs—at the spot where the hem of my skirt meets my bare thighs.
Sam’s always been a good-looking guy, but tonight, in his suit and tie, his face smooth, his eyes smoky, there’s something about him that makes my mouth water. Or maybe it’s that my lady parts are on high alert since our texts yesterday.
“Hey,” he says, then turns his gaze back to the dance floor. His eyes might be there, but his mind isn’t. He’s somewhere else tonight. How sexy is a man with a broken heart?
Is there a ladylike way to say, “Hey, you seem a little down. Want me to ride you until you can’t remember her name?”
I’ve known Sam since we were kids. He’s a few years older than me and he moved away while he completed his undergrad. When I was in high school, I crashed one of his parties and tried to find my way into his bed. He was a junior at Notre Dame with a reputation for being a player. I was a senior in high school, dumb enough to admit I was still in possession of my V-card.
But even bad boys have a code of honor, and that night, Sam followed the code to the letter.
“Wanna talk about it?” I ask.
He swings his gaze around to meet mine, and the intensity of the feeling in his eyes almost pushes me away. That’s what it’s supposed to do—shut people out, make them back off. This isn’t the happy-go-lucky Sam I’ve always known.
“About what?” he asks, the dare in his eyes.
“The girl who broke your heart.”
He lifts a brow. “Is that what the gossip mill is saying? That my heart is broken?”
No. That’s what every inch of your face is saying. “That’s the rumor,” I lie. There’s no rumor, only my suspicion.
He releases a noncommittal huff then really looks me in the eye for the first time all night. “Do you think I’m the kind of guy who gets his heart broken, Rowdy?”
“Liz,” I correct him, surprising myself. I’ve never minded the nickname he gave me when I was fifteen. And I’ve never minded Lizzy, either. But tonight, I want Sam to call me something else. Something more mature. “And there’s nothing wrong with getting your heart broken. It just means you’re human.”
Something flashes in his eyes—hurt or defiance, or maybe both.
“Do you want to dance, Liz?” He emphasizes my name, and I like how it sounds on his lips—slow and sensual, like a lazy morning spent naked in bed.
I follow him to the dance floor, completely aware that he hasn’t taken my hand or given me so much as a smile. When he pulls my body against his, it doesn’t matter. This is what I’ve been waiting for since last night. Maybe for four years. The feel of his hard chest, his hands on my back, so warm I can feel their heat through the thin fabric of my dress. It’s almost as if his heat is marking me.
“Let me help you forget her.” When he stiffens, I pull back to see his reaction. Surprise only shows in his eyes for a split second before he covers it with a smile. His crooked grin says, I know what you want and I’m going to give it to you. Even knowing he’s using it to hide something, his smile sends a little shimmy through my insides that settles as a thrumming pulse between my legs.