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Only Julia Ridgeway would hear that response and recognize I’m making a joke—one she absolutely loves.
“I’m serious,” I assure her, placing my hand on her cheek. “I’m all in. I’m going to try for you, Julia.”
She presses her lips against mine, kissing me hard like she wasn’t just on the verge of throwing her drink in my face.
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
I get another kiss. “We’re dancing,” Julia declares when she pulls away.
Adamantly, I shake my head. “I don’t dance.”
“The fuck you don’t,” she mutters—the confident woman’s code for I don’t take no for an answer.
Despite my protests, it’s no surprise to either of us when I follow her to the dancefloor. My girl asked me to dance with her, so I’m going to suck it up and dance with her. I trail behind her, my hand fixed in hers. She radiates carefree energy and the crowd seems to part when she weaves her way to the center. Lights bounce off her, catching the shine of her hair and the dewiness of her skin.
Effervescent. She’s effervescent.
When we’re in the middle of the dancefloor, set amid the sea of moving bodies, I pull her close enough to imagine her heartbeat pattering against my ribs. She positions my hands on her waist before she hooks her arms around my neck, bringing us even closer. Her breasts rub against my chest through the thin fabric of my shirt and her coverup. Her hair tickles my chin. Her hips collide softly against my thighs, and the entire world melts into just me and her.
I’ve never danced so close with anyone wearing so little. Not even in college or with Constance. Julia and I are in public, two people notable enough that we should worry about being watched. Photographed. Filmed, even. This is so beyond the realm of what I do, and yet I’m so content in her arms.
I wonder how we look together. I’m so much older than her and she’s so pretty. I’ve gotten enough validation over the years that I never question my looks or my physique, but Julia Ridgeway is in a class all her own.
This is strange and different…and it’s still wonderful.
A few feet away, Jay watches us, glowering. At first, his patent jealousy leaves me smug. But when he doesn’t stop glaring outright, I grow uneasy. After all, he looks like a weaselly bitch who might have something up his sleeve.
I stare at Julia’s face, assessing if she engineered this public dry-fuck knowing Jay would be watching. But when I pull back, she kisses me firmly. She’s clearly oblivious to Jay, which makes me want to murder him right here and now.
He moves closer through the sea of people, eyeing me. He comes up right behind her and puts his goddamn hands on her. The simper on his face is undeniable: I’m being taunted.
I’m half-furious because nobody touches what’s mine unless I say they can, and I’m half-furious because he’s using her as a pawn. Julia can sleep with whoever she wants, but they better give a damn about her.
I pull her towards me—but I’m not fast enough.
He raises his hand, places it on Julia’s cheek, turns her face, and fucking kisses her.
I’m going to kill him.
Chapter 19: Julia
I tear my lips away from Jay’s and am about to ask what the hell he’s doing, when Gus pulls his arm back. The look of pure, undeniable fury on his face makes my blood run cold.
“Don’t,” I warn, almost plead, stepping between Gus and Jay and frantically holding up my hands because Gus could—and might—kill Jay.
Surprised, Gus immediately stops. With his fist still in the air, his blue eyes narrow. He looks between Jay and me. His hand relaxes and his brow tightens, and I wonder how he reads the situation.
“Wrong choice,” he declares before he turns and stalks off the dance floor.
Mortified, I watch Gus’s retreating figure. At the same time, Jay’s hand drifts away from my stomach. No no no. Did he think I was picking Jay over him?
When I lose sight of Gus, I whirl around and tighten my expression. Jay’s face is surprisingly placid for a guy who was just nearly eviscerated by a man half a foot taller than him.
“What was that for?” I demand.
Jay raises a shoulder, expression borderline amused. “I did you a favor, Jules,” he claims, speaking into my ear over the thump of the music. “That guy is all wrong for you.”
