Page 1 of Dancing With Distraction

Tori

It’s cold. Too cold to wear this dress I insisted was a good idea, even though Phoebe told me it was a bad one. I wrap my arms around myself as discreetly as possible, so she doesn’t call me out and gloat at how right she was . . . again.

The line for Kat’s is hella long, like always, but it’s the best bar on this strip, and after the day I’ve had, I need a good night.

“We really shouldn’t have drunk the entire bottle of wine,” says Phoebe, pulling her coat around herself. “I didn’t eat anything and I’m feeling it.”

I roll my eyes. I love her more than anything, but she’s too sensible for her own good, which is probably why we gel so well—she keeps me in line.

A dark, sleek-looking car pulls up to the edge of the road and the driver steps out to open the passenger back door. Phoebe nudges me. “He must be important,” she whispers as a man steps from the car, followed by three other men. My eyes are immediately fixed on him. There’s an air about him that screams power, and he’s got a body that tells me he works out a lot. He pulls his suit jacket together, fastening a button before moving towards the entrance.

“Maybe the fucker can get us in quicker,” I say, and she groans.

“Don’t you dare embarrass me.”

I put my fingers in my mouth and whistle loudly. He glances my way, and we make eye contact. Two things happen, the first being my heart stops, literally. He’s so damn swoon-worthy, I almost think I’m imagining him. The second is he scowls. He looks so annoyed, it makes me grin, and right away, I know I want to speak to him.

“You look like you’re on the guest list,” I say.

One of the men beside him glares in my direction, but the main man slows and his lip lifts slightly, like he’s about to smile but thinks better of it. Then he pats the man on the shoulder and continues inside.

“Fucking rude,” I mutter.

It’s another ten minutes before the red rope is lifted and the doorman lets in a few of us. I’m so relieved, I groan the second we step inside and warmth wraps around us. “I told you you’d regret the dress,” says Phoebe.

“It’s a Balmain, Phoebs. It retails at over five grand,” I tell her, tugging at the thigh-length split. The second I saw the black sequined number, I knew I had to wear it at least once. The lightweight material and the barely-there straps make me feel like a refined lady, for once.

“One day, your boss will catch you taking this stuff, and you’ll lose your job.”

We stop at the bar and wait to be served. “I’m only borrowing it. It’ll be back on the rack by Monday and she’ll never know.” I’ve been borrowing my outfits for months and no one has noticed them missing. What’s the point of working in retail if you can’t sample the products? I was thrilled when I got the job as a personal shopper at Harrods, as it’s the main reason I moved to London. My goal is to get into fashion design, but it’s not proving easy without a university degree.

The barman turns his attention to us, and we order two cocktails each, to save a second trip. I spot two of our friends, Nell and Ivy, in a booth near the VIP area and give them a wave. We always try to get the spot by the ‘rich people corner’ in the hopes we’ll find some wealthy guy to sweep us off our feet.

Once we have our drinks, we make our way over and slide into the booth. That’s when I spot him again—the man from outside. He’s behind the VIP rope, his gorgeous face illuminated by the screen of his laptop. The men he was with earlier seem to have gone, except one, who sits opposite him, talking into his mobile phone.

“I have my man in sight,” I tell the girls.

They all turn to see who I’m looking at. “He’s way out of our league,” says Nell, laughing.

“Speak for yourself,” I scoff, smirking playfully. I adjust my dress slightly to make sure I’m showing enough boob.

“He’s not interested,” Phoebe tells the other’s. “She tried to get him to let her in with him, and he blanked her.”

I nudge her. “Don’t be pessimistic. The night is young, and I still have at least five cocktails until he sees my fun side.”

The girls laugh. “Please, you’ll scare the poor guy off,” says Ivy. “Actually, go full crazy and then I’ll swoop in and convince him to pick me.”

I down the first cocktail, wincing at the bitter taste of lemon. “Go steady,” Phoebe tells me, rolling her eyes, but I ignore her.

“I deserve a break, and he is it,” I firmly declare to the others.

There’s something about the guy that’s luring me in, and it’s not a feeling I’ve experienced before, so I have to explore it. Right?

I stand, tugging my dress as I approach the man guarding the roped area. “Hey,” I say, adding my best smile.

He rolls his eyes. “Not tonight.”

“You don’t know what I was gonna say,” I argue.

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