As she laughs, her teeth sink into her lower lip. She traces invisible patterns on my dress shirt, in no hurry to leave my arms, thank Christ.
“I used to work here when I was in high school,” she says out of nowhere. “I helped serve at wedding receptions and Christmas parties.”
“I bet you rocked the uniform.”
She grins. “You know it. Nothing as sexy as a girl in a bow tie.”
“You could pull it off. In fact, I’m picturing you in a bow tie right now.”
She pulls back to look at me. “Odd fantasy.”
“I didn’t say you were wearing anything else.”
She lowers her voice a fraction. “There’s a small conference room outside of the ballroom and to the right. Meet me there after your dance.”
Then she steps out of my arms and walks away, and I’m left watching the way her ass swings in her skirt and wondering just what she plans to do in that conference room.
Liz is sweet. I’ve had to remind myself of that fact since she was fifteen and staying over with Della. I’d come home long after everyone else went to sleep and find her lounging in the family room in a sleep shirt with no bra underneath. I’d find her watching me when she didn’t think I noticed. A couple of years later, I was at Notre Dame, and she showed up at a house party looking for trouble. She got drunk and threw herself at me, and I turned her away. Because she was seventeen and I was twenty. Because she was drunk and I was sober. Because she was a virgin and I had experiences most grown men only get to dream about.
Now the rules have changed. She’s not seventeen anymore. And she’s waiting for me in the conference room.
My imagination doesn’t get far before my father is standing in front of me with the governor’s daughter, his politician face firmly in place.
“Samuel, you remember Sabrina.”
“Of course.” Offering my hand, I go through the motions of the introduction and even dance with her, but my mind is on Liz, and I’m counting down the seconds until I can sneak out of here to meet her.
Chapter Three
Liz
Four Years Before . . .
There’s a party of epic proportions rumbling in Sam Bradshaw’s basement.
The room is packed—everyone dancing and talking at once. Everyone drunk. There’s a long wooden bar along the far wall where three girls in short shorts and heels are standing, dirty-dancing and grinding on each other. I’m so out of my depth.
I told my mom I was visiting a prospective college and drove to Notre Dame to see him at the house he rents with friends. This isn’t what I expected. I should’ve dragged Hanna or Maggie along. But I left them at home because I didn’t want them to stop me from what I’d planned—namely, seducing Sam and losing my virginity.
I’ve been searching for Sam in the crowd for half an hour, and with every minute that I don’t find him, the excitement that fueled my drive north leaks out of me. What if he’s back in New Hope for the weekend? Hell, what if he has a girlfriend?
I drain the rest of my drink—my third since I arrived, and whoever’s mixing them is making them strong.
“Hey, beautiful. Come dance.”
The request comes from a tall, dark-haired guy. Not over-the-top gorgeous but okay. Attractive on most scales, though only average to a girl who grew up with the Samuel Bradshaws of the world.
As I nod, the room does a little spin and shifts off-kilter, like an awkward toddler ballerina. Something in my mind warns me to slow down, but I ignore it and head to the dance floor with Mr. Tall, Dark, and Average.
The back corner of the basement is cast in shadows and the booming music makes my ears ache, but alcohol buzzes through my blood and dancing feels good.
I relax into my movements, lose myself in the bass and the crowd. Time falls away as I lose more and more of my inhibitions with the help of the alcohol.
The guy works his hands up my shirt, and I don’t even care. Maybe I should. But I came here looking for Sam, and I’m disappointed. I want to prove I’m mature enough to come to a party like this and have a good time, so I let the guy touch my stomach, let him slide his fingers farther north.
Just as his hand closes over my breast, he’s yanked off me. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”
Sam.
As if someone jumped on the accelerator to my heart, my pulse speeds into high gear. I bite back a smile at the aggravation in his voice, stupidly happy he’s jealous.
Too late, I realize his angry words aren’t intended for the guy feeling me up. They’re intended for me.
“Is she yours?” my dancing partner asks.
I scowl. “Are you kidding me? I don’t belong to anyone.”