Page 39 of The Trouble with Players

He nodded.

“Sure.” I pushed myself to my feet and followed him to the dance floor. He weaved us around couples dancing until he stopped in a spot in the very center. I grabbed his small hands and moved us from side to side.

“Spin me!” he said.

I lifted one of our joined hands and twirled him around and around.

“I’m getting dizzy!” he cried.

“Then slow down,” I laughed as he tried to stand still, but his dizziness made him walk sideways.

“Are you okay?” I asked as the song changed to a slow one.

“Yesssss,” he said, sidestepping and trying to keep his balance.

“Hey, buddy.”

Rory and I both turned to find Crew standing near us on the dance floor. He had taken off his suit jacket and the sleeves of his white button-down shirt were rolled up and his blue tie was loosened.

“Mind if I dance with Peyton?” he asked him.

My heartrate hastened. Why did he want to dance with me? Hadn’t we said all that needed to be said outside?

“Sure,” Rory said. “She was making me too dizzy anyways.”

“Hey,” I admonished. “You wanted me to spin you.”

He shrugged before running off and leaving Crew and me in the center of the dance floor.

Crew reached for my hips, but I stepped back. He cocked his head. “Are you really gonna do this right now?”

“Do what?”

He glanced around the room, probably worried that people were watching our interaction.

“Feel free to find one of your adoring fans to dance with,” I said.

“I don’t want a fan.” He stepped forward and slipped his hands around my hips. “I want you.”

I don’t know if it was the way he said he wanted me, or because I was causing a slight scene resisting a dance with the MVP, but I slipped my arms over his shoulders and he pulled me against his chest. Since I was wearing heels, I was just up to his shoulder, so it made it easy for me to not look into his eyes as he swayed us slowly to the music.

“You look beautiful,” he whispered in my ear, his breath tickling my lobe.

I said nothing, angry that I’d given in so easily.

“I would’ve told you that before if you weren’t so hell bent on being mad at me.”

I was silent as the music echoed through the room.

“This is the longest you’ve gone without talking,” he acknowledged. “I didn’t think it was possible.”

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

We danced in silence. I tried not to focus on the gentle way his hands rested on my lower back or the scent of his cologne working its way into my senses. And forget his rock-hard chest pressed to mine. I would not focus on that.

The song ended and another slow one began. I tried to step back, but he held onto me tightly, stopping me from leaving. “I have a proposition for you,” he finally said.

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