Page 64 of When Hearts Ignite

Instead, strong arms curl around my back, stopping what would’ve been a humiliating disaster in an already difficult night.

My nose registers the spicy cologne of the ocean and leather.

My body registers the familiar warmth and strength of the man holding me upright.

My heart gallops, my lungs drawing in deep inhales of the familiar, intoxicating scent.

Then my eyes finally flutter open.

Steven’s beautiful face stares down at me and in a moment of weakness, a blip of disorientation, my fingers curl into the hard muscles of his forearms.

And I want to cry.

Relief. Security. Sadness. Elation.

My lips wobble as I watch his tiger stone eyes darken with intensity, his brows furrowed with concern. My fingers dig harder into his flesh, as if to verify he’s really here, standing before me. My grip must hurt, but he doesn’t even flinch.

In this split second where the world stops spinning around me, where my thoughts are waylaid by the rush of emotions inside me, everything ceases to matter, because I’m Grace, and he’s Steven, and we’re just friends, and he found me…even though I ran away from him, but fate brought us back together and everything will be okay.

The feeling of safety only he can give me cloaks me in its warmth, and if this is a dream, I never want to wake up.

“Grace?” His deep, raspy voice jolts me awake as effectively as a bucket of ice water over my head.

He pulls me to a standing position, and I drop his arms like they’ve burned me.

The wires in my brain finally connect and thoughts race in like a barrage of texts on your birthday, except this isn’t joyous. It can’t be. The sticky heat of anxiety coats my insides, and I shrink away. He can’t know I work here. He can’t know what I do here.

I want him to remember me as before.

“S-Sorry, sir. You’re mistaken.”

Without waiting for his response, I turn away, striding toward the game tables once more, desperate to reach the exits at the far corner of the room, my feet feeling like they’re weighed down by lead, but I persist.

“Wait, Grace!”

I hear his calls behind me as I dart back into the crowds again, hoping he’d give up on chasing me. Pushing my way through throngs of expensive suits and fancy dresses, I walk faster, as fast as these heels can carry me, all the while trying to maintain a serene expression on my face, because nothing is unusual about a lady dressed to the nines, crossing the room with the desperation of criminals fleeing the scene of a crime.

Just as I am about to reach one of the double doors to the ballroom, a strong hand grips my wrist, halting my escape.

“Beautiful Genevieve, I never thought I’d say this, but you look almost as gorgeous in that dress as you do without your clothes on.” The interloper tugs me to him and his hand slides over my stomach as rancid breath hits my nose.

I close my eyes and bite my tongue to keep from cringing. Focusing on the sharp pain in my mouth, I turn to the man behind me and tick my lips up into a demure smile.

“Mr. Voss, you are too kind.” Gently, I pry his hands off me and step back. “And I’ve always worn costumes at the club.”

Timothy Voss, the bane of everyone’s existence, especially TransAmerica, is a frequenter to Trésor—every other Friday, to be exact. Unfortunately, he always “greeted me” there, his grubby hands always a millimeter away from my skin and oftentimes he’d have “accidents,” where his fingers would skate over my breasts or he’d press up against me in the guise of having to move and inadvertently grind his disgusting bulge on my stomach. Then there were the many unwanted solicitations and lewd comments I tried my best to forget about.

Sofia has posted a bouncer next to me whenever Timothy steps through those rosewood doors and I know he’s a few strikes away from being kicked out of the establishment. But as of now, he is still a patron.

Which means I need to grit my teeth and put on my big girl pants.

Timothy’s thick hands circle my waist again, his fingers splayed over the tops of my ass. “Your little scraps of clothing aren’t costumes. They are an invitation. We’re not at Trésor, sweetheart. The no touch rule doesn’t apply here. Why don’t I book us a private suite upstairs and we can have some fun tonight?”

My fingers attempt to pry his hands off me, but this time, he holds on tight, a smarmy smile decorating his face. “I’m not interested, Mr. Voss. Unhand me, please.”

Instead of letting me go, he spreads his legs and pulls me closer to him, so I’m now standing half an inch away from his suit-covered beer belly. “Come on, sweetheart, you’ve enjoyed our conversations, right? I’ve seen you shake your body at me on the stage. I tip very well.”

His hand moves suddenly, and he paws my cleavage. “Your tits are so fuckable,” he whispers in my ear.

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