I see right through the careless smile he flashes. It bothers him that people think he’s a wealthy playboy who has everything handed to him on a silver platter. And yes, I do recognize that side of him—the Life of Dean is pretty fucking sweet—but I’ve also seen other facets of his personality this past month.
He’s tenacious. Seriously, this guy never, ever gives up when he wants something.
He cares about his friends and teammates. Hell, I didn’t see him on Monday and Tuesday this week because he’d requested extra ice time so he could help some guy named Hunter hone his skills.
He owns more books than the public library in Brooklyn, and I can tell from their wear and tear that he’s actually read all of them.
He—
“Your purse.”
My head lifts up. “What about it?”
Dean gestures to the black clutch on the bench seat between us. “It’s vibrating.”
I shake myself out of the bizarre Why Dean Is So Great list I was composing, and snap open the clutch to find my phone buzzing.
I set down my rum and coke. “My friends are here. Will you come get them with me? I might need you to talk to the bouncer again.”
He gives an exaggerated sigh. “I knew it. You’re just using me for my connections.”
“Yep,” I answer cheerfully.
We head back to the staircase, and I squeal when I spot a familiar face behind the rope.
“They’re with us,” Dean tells the bouncer.
A moment later, there’s a teeny, equally excited brunette hurling herself into my arms. “Oh my God! It’s so good to see you!” shrieks my best friend from high school. “You don’t fucking call me enough!”
I grin and say, “It takes two to tango” and then we’re happily hugging again, until I notice the shadow looming over us.
Dillon disentangles herself from the embrace and introduces us to her boyfriend. “This is Roy.”
Last time we spoke on the phone, she mentioned she was dating a football player. I would’ve guessed it even if she hadn’t told me, because Roy is a monster of a man. At least six-seven, with arms as thick as tree trunks and thighs that are bigger than my torso. And either I’m imagining it, or he looks exactly like—
“Dude, anyone ever tell you that you look like a young Samuel L. Jackson?” Dean demands, stealing the words right out of my mouth.
Roy’s massive shoulders set in a rigid line. “Ahhh, I get it, ’cause all us brothas look the same to you, right?”
My alarmed gaze flies to Dillon, because the menacing glare twisting Roy’s features is downright terrifying. And his voice is deeper than the bass line thudding through the club.
“What next?” Roy growls. “You gonna say there’s somethin’ wrong with me going out with this fine white girl? Is that what you’re saying?”
Dean is unfazed. “Yeah, you got me, man. I’m a huge racist.” He shakes his head incredulously as he continues to stare at Roy. “It’s frickin’ uncanny. You look exactly like him.”
I’m seconds away from clapping my hand over Dean’s mouth before this behemoth snaps him like a twig, but to my astonishment, Roy’s ominous expression dissolves.
“I’m just playing with you, bro. I get it all the time.” Roy breaks out in a huge grin. “I won ten grand last summer at a celebrity impersonation contest—first place for my Sam Jackson. I did the speech from Deep Blue Sea, right before the shark gets ’im.”
“Nice.” Dean flashes a mischievous smile. “PS, some more racism coming your way—you sound like James Earl Jones.”
Roy throws his head back and releases a big, booming laugh. Then he slaps Dean on the arm and says, “You’re all right, white boy.”
Just like that, they’re best friends, talking animatedly as they charge ahead.
Dillon sighs and links her arm through mine. “Roy likes to scare people,” she apologizes.
I snicker. “Don’t worry, Dean doesn’t scare easily.”
“Dean, huh?” Her eyes light up. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a new boyfriend?”
“Because I don’t. We’re just having some fun. Nothing serious.”
“Ha! Yeah right, AJ. With you, it’s always serious.”
Not this time, I want to say, but we’ve reached the table and the guys’ voices drown out our conversation. Beau and Roy are already talking football, and because the latter is so damn enormous, he takes up at least three people’s worth of space on the bench-style seat. Dillon slides in beside him, which leaves zero room for me.
Grinning, Dean tugs me into his lap and winds one strong arm around my waist. “You can sit right here, baby doll.”
“Aw, thanks, honey-pie.”
The six of us make such an unlikely group that I suddenly have scenes from The Breakfast Club flashing in my mind. Beau the East Coast quarterback. Dean the hockey player. Roy the linebacker from Louisiana. Joanna the Broadway actress. Dillon the finance major. And me, the future star of rom coms.
Despite that, there’s no shortage of conversation. Dillon and I fill each other in on what we’ve been up to the past few months. Since I started college, I’ve lost touch with most of my high school friends, but Dillon’s friendship is one I was determined to preserve.
As I chat with her, I’m very aware of the fact that Dean is touching me. Constantly. Stroking my shoulder. Grazing my thigh. Nuzzling my neck. At one point he even brushes his lips over my cheek, which summons a loud hoot from Beau.
“Jesus, Bella,” he marvels. He’s highly amused as he meets my eyes. “What kind of spell did you cast on my man Dean? I’ve never seen him like this with a chick before.”
“My name’s Allie,” I correct.
That makes him laugh harder.
Dean sighs, then leans in close and murmurs, “Wanna dance?”
“Depends… Are you a good dancer?”
“Every man is a good dancer.”
I snort. “The broken toe I got in high school begs to differ.”
“Sorry, what I should’ve said is—every man is capable of being a good dancer.” His hands lock around my waist as he lifts me to my feet. “There’s just one move a man needs to know in order to rock it on the dance floor.”
“Yeah? What’s the move?” I ask curiously.
Dean twines his fingers through mine as we descend the staircase. “STAG.” He has to shout his answer, because the music is louder down here.
I stand on my tiptoes so my mouth is close to his ear. “What’s stag?”
“The only one of Logan’s crazy acronyms I live my life by—STAG.” His mouth stretches in a broad smile. “Stand there and grind.”
Laughter bubbles out of my throat, turning into a shriek of delight when Dean hauls me into his arms. I wrap my legs around his waist and hold on tight as he carries me to the dance floor. Then he sets me on my feet, presses his delectable body against mine, and proves that STAG really is the only move that matters.
As the sultry, pulse-pounding beat snakes its way into my blood, I toss my hair and shake my hips and run my hands up and down Dean’s rippled chest. The strobe light flashes through the dark club, offering tantalizing glimpses of Dean’s chiseled features, his hypnotic green eyes, the sensual curve of his mouth.
We dance for hours. Or at least it feels like hours. The others join us on the dance floor, and I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun. I dance with Beau, who grabs my ass every chance he gets. I dance with Roy, who has some sick moves for a man mountain. I dance sandwiched between Dillon and Joanna. I dance with Dean, and the erotic grinding of his hips makes me hot and achy and utterly blissful.
Dillon and I sling back two shots at the bar, but I’m not drunk, just deliciously buzzed. Dean seems to be taking it easy too, but the others are definitely on their way to getting plastered. Especially Beau, whose cheeks are flushed and eyes are bright as he vertical-sexes a gorgeous redhead on the dance floor.
Joanna begs off around eleven-thirty, saying she has an early rehearsal in the morning. Dillon and Roy follow suit soon after; the moment Dillon starts slurring her speech, Roy proves to be not only a responsible adult, but a conscientious boyfriend, and promptly whisks her away. Around midnight, after Beau staggers up looking more wasted than ever, Dean decides it’s time for us to go, too.
“Where’s your friend?” I ask Beau, peering past his shoulder in search of the redhead.
“Went home to her husband.”
I fight a laugh. Dean, who’s pretty much the only thing holding Beau upright at this point, snickers loudly.
We exit the club and step into the frigid night air. Beau is leaning on me now, because Dean is at the curb hailing us a taxi. With Joanna gone, I’m worried about Beau getting home safely, so I insist he share a cab with us.
“You should go upstairs with him,” I tell Dean. “Make sure he gets all the way to his door.”
A cab miraculously appears. I slide in first, followed by Beau, who groans, closes his eyes, and proceeds to pass out with his head on my shoulder.
Dean gets in and rattles off Beau’s address to the cabbie. He looks at his sleeping friend, then meets my gaze over Beau’s head.
“His parents are home, right?” I say slowly. “Will they freak out if they see him like this?”