His blue eyes twinkle with delight. “Oh, you said it, Wild Girl. I heard it. And I sure hope you’re not insinuating that only strippers are named after states. Or that there’s anything wrong with dating a stripper.”
I slap his shoulder playfully. “I have zero issues with stripping. In fact, I’ll have you know that I led a campaign to make sure that strip club workers qualified for health insurance in Las Vegas.”
“Whoa, look at you, Miss Progressive.”
“But the name does sound . . . deliberately sexy,” I explain as we twirl past other couples on the dance floor, including my brother, who gives us those I’m watching you eyes, like Robert De Niro gave Ben Stiller in Meet the Parents.
Crosby and I both laugh at the groom.
Friends, I mouth.
Buddies, Crosby adds.
It feels true enough for now.
“Yes, her name does sound overtly sexy,” Crosby says. “And I suppose she had stripper tendencies, as you’ll learn, but she was actually a fortune-teller.”
A laugh bursts from me. “Did you ask her to look into your crystal . . . balls?”
The twinkle in his eye turns into a naughty gleam. “Keep this up. I like this risqué side of you.”
Funny thing is, I do too.
I can say things to Crosby that I don’t normally say to men. Maybe because I haven’t had the chance, since my dating life has been anemic—going to an all-girls college, then heading straight into a master’s program where all you do is study, study, study, can do that to a woman who digs men.
But perhaps it’s the champagne loosening my lips.
The other option is . . . it’s him.
“Maybe you bring it out in me,” I suggest, a touch flirty.
“I’ll do my best to . . . keep it up,” he says, wiggling his brows, making me grin. “And to answer your question, I met Alabama Venus at Whole Foods.”
I snort-laugh. “Wait, wait! Were you fighting over who got the last basket of organic raspberries?”
“I guess you do have a crystal ball,” he says, then dives into the story. “She was an organic food fiend too. Maybe not the best of commonalities, but there it was. We dated for a while. Seemed to be going well enough. So we went to Cabo, and one night she wanted to go dancing. We went to a club, and we danced our asses off.”
Perhaps powered by the “risqué” comment, I jerk back, one hand sliding off his shoulder and landing on his hip, so I can give his rear a quick once-over. Sneaking a peek at his butt, I remark, “It’s still here. Did you lose your rear in Cabo then get it back?”
He wiggles a brow. “I had a butt transplant.”
I laugh, and as I do, my hand seems to have a mind of its own. Emboldened by champagne, or the wedding, or Crosby’s stories.
What if my palm just grazed his rear?
Just a little.
That’s all.
We’re on the far corner of the dance floor, his backside out of view of the crowd.
And my hand is on his hip. I can sort of slide it down a little lower.
The she-devil in me wins, my hand skimming the top of one firm, squeezable cheek.
His eyes widen as my hand travels lower, then lower still.
Oh, thank you, champagne.
I’m feeling floaty indeed.
His eyes darken, a flicker of desire in them, chased with that teasing glint. “Nadia, are you checking out my butt transplant?” he asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s busting me.
More like he’s . . . inviting me.
Still, heat flushes across my cheeks. I tug my hand away, raising it again to curl over his shoulder. “Sorry. I’m so sorry. It was sort of an accidental squeeze, powered by champagne and dancing,” I say, tripping over my apology.
Ugh, that’s a lie.
I hate lying.
It was not accidental.
It was deliberate and deliberately sneaky.
His voice dips low, a rough whisper just for me. “Was it? Accidental?”
His sexy tone sends a flare of sparks through my chest. A shiver that makes my whole body tingle.
“Or maybe it was . . . curiosity?” I posit, a little breathy.
“By all means, indulge your curiosity,” he murmurs.
My breathing quickens, rushing from my lungs in an unexpected burst that sends prickles of heat along my skin.
“This isn’t my normal MO,” I whisper, coming close, but not too close, to my virginity confession. Crosby doesn’t know I’ve never had sex. I don’t blast that little fact on a billboard. But the least I can do is let him know that I’m not a regular butt squeezer. “Just wanted you to know that. I don’t go around accidentally squeezing butts. Or deliberately.”
He takes a moment, licking the corner of his lips. “All the more reason to check it out. Deliberately,” he says, so warm and sexy on that last word.
Sneaking a glance behind me to confirm the rest of the guests are caught up in their own world, I snake my hand down to his butt once more.
Cover his firm cheek with my hand.
My insides handspring. My pulse spikes.
His butt feels fantastic.
I squeeze it harder, murmuring my appreciation.
He rumbles his in return, a low growl in his throat that lights me up. “Yeah, it’s better when it’s not accidental,” he says.
“I have to agree,” I say, unsure how I’m forming words right now.
Unsure, too, what happens next.
Because the mood has shifted once again.
But when the music switches to Ella Fitzgerald and a love song so swoony you have to sway with your lover, we separate.
Untangling quickly.
“Drink?” I ask, my voice feathery, uncertain. “After all, I need the rest of the dance-your-ass-off tale.”
“Let’s do it.”
We make our way to a bar in the other corner of the room, away from most of the festivities, and order two more champagnes.
After the bartender serves us, we raise our glasses to toast.
