chest-height as she bounced on the balls of her feet. “Heavyweight linen would work fine for an ottoman used in a formal living room.”
He stood there, not moving a muscle, not shedding a single bead of sweat. “Formal living rooms are a waste of space.”
“Says the man who lives in a shoebox.”
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “How would you know what I live in? You’ve never been to my place.”
And she was going to keep it that way. “Dance. You look silly, standing there, watching me.”
“I like watching you.”
When she spun back around he was dancing, not the drunken flail of her sixty-something uncles, but a cocky toss of his head, and a smooth roll of his hips.
Who was sweating now? Beads tickled between her shoulder blades. Maybe her dancing was to blame. Although that would be pathetic—she hadn’t been moving for more than five minutes.
He reached up and loosened his tie.
But then he grabbed her hand, pulling her fast and hard against his chest.
“Hey,” she protested, wiggling against his palm on the small of her back, but as she did, she realized her legs rested on either side of his thigh, and the fabric of her dress strained against his knee.
“What? You too old and stuffy for a good grind?” He gripped her right hand in his left hand as he lowered them both to the floor.
Her knees shook. Her heart raced. A steady stream of sweat spilled down her spine. She couldn’t imagine how undignified this looked…which was exactly why she stayed. In his arms. With his body nearly infiltrating hers. If Tony wasn’t going to shed the suit coat and brandish those tattoos, he could at least make a tawdry exhibition out of her, horrifying her family and dispatching them to her aid.
It was a plan she was certain would work, until the band lambasted her with a slow song, and Tony nuzzled his cheek to hers.
If the twinges in her stomach were any indication, this night was not going to end well.
CHAPTER FIVE
Tony didn’t drink a drop of alcohol, so why was his head spinning? He stared at the beautiful woman sitting across the table from him. Tiny curls, wet from the sweat of their dancing, clung to the sides of her head. Her skin glowed a happy pink from the exertion. And he wondered—against his better judgment—if she looked like this after sex.
“Where are you kids headed after this?” Dr. DeVign swiped a white napkin across his mouth and then tossed it on the table.
“No place. This is it.” Trish’s eyes were wide as she nodded. “Such a great night. So tired. Big day tomorrow. Huge.”
Tony hadn’t just flustered her, he’d nearly incapacitated her. He knew it the moment she broke from his arms at the start of the slow dance only to come back here and take a seat in silence next to her mother.
“Very good. I have quite the day, too. Dolores, shall we give our best to the bride and groom, and be on our way?” Dr. DeVign didn’t allow his wife to answer. He stood, lifted his jacket off the back of his chair and extended a hand to Tony. “It was nice meeting you, young man. Make sure Trisha gets home safely.”
“Yes, sir,” Tony said, standing to return the healthy grip.
Mrs. DeVign latched onto Tony’s arm. “Don’t rush out on our account. I’m sure you have time for one more dance.” She looked at Trish, who was looking anything but eager to take her mother’s advice. “Right, dear?”
“Leave the girl alone, Dolores.” Walking behind Tony, Dr. DeVign took his wife’s arm and led her from the table, pausing briefly to place a kiss on his daughter’s forehead.
Tony watched the older couple fade into the thinning crowd, and then he slipped his hands into his pants pockets as he smiled at Trish. “How ’bout that dance?” he asked, even though he expected a refusal.
She shook her head. “I really am tired.”
So was he….tired of skirting around the obvious attraction, but what was their alternative? Angie’s steel- toed boot in his ass as she kicked him out of her garage, guaranteeing he’d lose his space to work—should Trish ever feel comfortable enough to hire him again.
He walked around the table and pulled back her chair, and when she stood, stopping inches from his chest, her face never lifting, he felt like a freaking martyr for putting the brakes on whatever was happening between them.
Tony hated brakes. He liked to go like hell, then back off the gas and coast until he came to a nice, easy stop.
“Thanks for coming with me tonight.” Trish still wasn’t looking at him. Instead, she pushed in her chair, fussed with a wedding favor, and smoothed the wrinkles from her dress. And then she walked to the door. Unlike her parents, she didn’t exchange goodbyes with the bride and groom or a single relative, but she did nod sweetly at the wait staff, clearing plates from a table near the door.
She was a complicated creature. Tony was used to Ma and Angie, two women who put family above all others and told it like it was, whether he liked it or not. He was also used to overly eager twenty-somethings who clung to him at the bars, saying all sorts of things that made him blush. Him. Blush. Which wasn’t easy.
It also wasn’t easy to figure out where Trish DeVign fit in that mix.
She walked ahead of him, making a beeline for Vin’s car. Normally, he’d ogle her ass and legs in the low streetlamp light, and imagine the shock on her face if he told her he wanted to see her in nothing but those heels. But tonight wasn’t normal.
He stopped alongside Vin’s $150,000 Ferrari.
See? Not normal.
After they settled into the car, Tony banished the uncomfortable silence with a twist of his wrist, firing the engine. The purring soothed his scattered thoughts, but didn’t quiet them. For lots of reasons, he didn’t want to screw up. Aside from avoiding Angie’s temper and the loss of income, Tony liked Trish. He liked the way she didn’t throw herself at him, and he liked the glimpse of playfulness beneath the professional exterior. In fact, he liked the combination so much he’d call her the marrying kind if a man was so inclined. Which he wasn’t. And because he wasn’t, anything beyond a goodnight kiss to Trish’s cheek was out of the question.
The best thing he could do was get things back to normal.
“Are you mad at me because I said formal living rooms are a waste of space?” he teased.
She smiled, a smile that crinkled the skin around her eyes more than it curled her lips. “No. I’m not mad at you. I’ve just got a lot on my mind.”
“Like decorating formal living rooms.”
She chuckled, but she also gnawed the inside of her bottom lip. Being raised by a bunch of women made him an expert in female, nonverbal communication.
“If you want to talk, I’m good at listening,” he said, gripping her headrest and twisting for a better view as he backed out of the parking spot. “Plus, I know what it’s like to have a lot on my mind. Maybe I can help.”
Her inhale and exhale echoed inside the car. “Tony, I’m sorry. I must seem silly, brooding about my little problems when your family is dealing with Nonna’s illness.”
“Problems are problems.” He hugged the shoulder of the road, not wanting to take any chances with the oncoming traffic and Vin’s car.
“Some problems are bigger than others. Angie said the cancer is inoperable.”
These days everybody wanted to talk about Nonna. Her treatment. Her wish list. How much time she had
