But that's what she thought-he was certain of it. Because she turned away to the back wall as soon as the words were out of his mouth.
Fuck. He'd done it. He'd gone and ruined the best thing ever.
He was in the process of brutally kicking his own ass when she faced him again, a fierce determination burning in her eyes.
And when she started to unbutton her sundress, all he could see was her. All he could imagine was the feel of her skin against his.
All he could think was that she loved him, too.
But he was an idiot, of course. A goddamn fool.
Because he didn't have the slightest clue that a night that looked like heaven was going to end up turning into hell.
10
I see him the moment I step outside the club. He's leaning against the side of a Lincoln Navigator, his arms crossed over his chest as he watches me. His hair is windswept, the gold shining under the yellow-tinted parking area lights, and from his posture it's obvious he's still wound up tight, as if he's on the verge of exploding.
As I get closer, I can see the irritation and impatience on his face as clearly as if it was stamped there. I know it's directed at me-and that knowledge kicks off a swarm of butterflies in my stomach, my reaction one of both anticipation and trepidation. Because even while I fear the explosion, I'm grateful for any reaction from him. This is the man who never looked back, after all, whereas I spent years mourning his loss.
And, while his attack on Drunk Dude may have mortified me, I can't deny that it excited me, too.
What I'm not certain about is why exactly he's annoyed. Is it because of my dance? Or is it because he's getting tired of waiting in the parking lot for me?
The latter wouldn't surprise me. The truth is, I did take my time coming out. In fact, I'd considered staying until the final girls danced, not only because I was in the mood to aggravate Wyatt, but also because I wanted that money.
Based on the chatter backstage as I was changing and packing up my stuff, I know I was in the lead by a huge margin. And everyone was speculating who would end up winning if I actually followed Wyatt out of the building. Because that's one of the rules. The winner has to be present.
But here I am outside.
Here I am, walking away from what I'm guesstimating is at least a grand, probably a little more.
And for what? I don't even know if he's going to hire me. Or if he's going to apologize for smacking down that drunk and embarrassing me, much less ordering me outside like I'm a recalcitrant teenager.
I pick up my pace, my speed increasing along with my irritation. As I approach, he stands up straight. His mouth moves, as if he's going to speak, but I don't let him. Instead, I poke him in the chest with my index finger. "You owe me a grand," I say. "Probably more, but I'll settle for a thousand. In cash. Tonight."
I expect him to laugh. Or at least to ask me what the hell I'm talking about. Instead, he reaches up and folds his hand around mine. His palm is warm, and though this isn't an intimate touch, my stupid, traitorous hormones are reacting as if it were. As if we were the old Kelsey and Wyatt, holding hands on the far side of the golf course where no one could see us, least of all my father.
Roughly, I wrench my hand from his. "A grand," I repeat.
"Get in the car," he says.
I tilt my head, then cross my arms over my chest. His eyes follow my movements, and as I watch, the corner of his mouth lifts, and that tiny movement softens his expression. I feel my skin heat, because I wasn't expecting him to so overtly check out my breasts.
Then my blush deepens, as I realize he's not checking me out at all. Instead, he's reading my T-shirt.
"Dance like nobody's watching," he reads, then looks at my face with the kind of intensity I remember only too well. The kind that sends shivers through me. "Is that what you were doing in there?" he asks. "Dancing for yourself?"
I force my feet to stay planted on the asphalt. I want to run from the heat I see in his eyes. Because it's dangerous, I know it is. And yet I need him, and if I run, I'll only be hurting my brother.
I draw a breath, fix my eyes on an illuminated gas station sign shining somewhere behind him, and say very softly, "No."
"Look at me, Kelsey."
I do, my jaw set as I force myself to maintain eye contact.
"Tell me," he says.
"You know the answer." I'm proud that I've managed to disguise the tremor in my voice. "This was an audition, wasn't it? Who do you think I was dancing for?"
His throat moves as he swallows. "Get in the car."
"Pay me."