Page 62 of The Devil Wears Tartan

I nod too, and we stand a few feet apart, watching each other as our reflections shift around on the mirrored walls.

“Thanks for showing it to me.” My voice comes out low and a little breathy.

She looks so good, even in a simple white t-shirt. A couple times during the tour, I got a glimpse of a purple lace bra underneath.

I wonder if she thought about me when she picked it out.

A few seconds of silence tick by. There’s no clear next move here. We’re so far into uncharted territory it even feels like a struggle to tell the difference between up and down.

I open my mouth, not really sure what to say to break the silence, but Moira beats me to it.

“Wait right here,” she orders, pointing at my feet before stepping past me to get to the door.

“Is this the part where you lock me in here for the night as some kind of prank?” I joke.

She pauses in the doorway and winks. “You gotta trust me, Kenzie.”

I take a shuddering breath as I stand there listening to her jog down the stairs. I’m not sure how to trust anyone but myself, and around her, I can’t even do that.

That dark chasm I’m always evading starts opening under my feet as my breathing gets even faster, but it closes up again when I hear the floor creaking as Moira makes her way back down the hall.

“Found it!” she shouts when she reappears around the edge of the door. “I knew there would be a bottle of this around here somewhere.”

I look down to see the bottle of Macallan Scotch clutched in her hands. She shakes the amber liquid around and wags her eyebrows at me.

I bring a hand up to my cheek, pretending to be scandalized even though her expression has my stomach doing back flips. “Exactly what kind of a dance school is this?”

“It’s for special occasions,” she protests, “for the staff and parents and stuff.”

“So what’s the occasion?”

She steps back into the studio and taps her chin, just under her bottom lip. I want to place my finger there too. I want to see the way she’d look at me if I traced the outline of her mouth.

“Hmmm. You know, I think anyone who’s part of the Canadian highland dance community would think you and me having a civil discussion is an occasion for raising a toast.”

Before I can stop myself, I step closer. “Who said anything about civil?”

Her breath catches. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I called it too soon.”

There’s a dangerous glint in her eyes as she keeps the bottle clutched in one hand and trails the other up the front of her shirt, teasing me just like I did to her with my skirt downstairs. I bite my tongue to keep from letting a groan out when she reaches the curves of her chest. She hooks a finger over her t-shirt’s neckline, tugging down until I get another look at the purple lace of her bra.

“Guess we won’t be needing these, then.”

She tugs the fabric lower, and I’m about to rasp her name when she reaches into her shirt and pulls two stacked shot glasses out from where she hid them at the base of her cleavage.

I swear under my breath, and she lets out a peal of laughter as her shirt snaps back into place.

“Did you plan that?” I demand.

She takes the whisky over to the table housing the sound system, her hips swaying.

“I don’t know about you, but I haven’t entirely forgotten the bet,” she drawls. “Do you want a whisky, or will that make it too easy for me to win?”

I don’t know how she shifts from sweet to sexy so fast, but the transformation always leaves me mesmerized.

There are more sides to Moira Murray than I can count, and I want more of them all.

“You don’t think it would make it easier for me to win?” I say as I stalk over to join her.

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