Page 66 of Strike Zone

I’m too busy watching my feet, trying not to trip and make a fool of myself to notice what she’s doing. I feel her though. She’s watching me as her feet slide across the wood floor. I never would have guessed she would be the type of person to be able to keep up on the dance floor of a rowdy bar.

After a few more songs, the music switches over to something with a slower tempo. Dancers partner up for a two-step and start gliding around the floor in unison.

“Put your hand on my shoulder blade,” she says, taking one of my hands in hers. My fingers scrape the bare skin of her back. I’m tempted to do it once more just to see her eyelashes flutter again. “When I step backward, you go forward.” She keeps an eye on the dancers, timing their movements. “You ready?”

I nod and we begin to move. “Eyes on me. Your body knows what to do,” she says, her gaze unyielding.

My body knows what it wants to do. I’ll give her that. I want to find a dark corner in this place and pin her up against a wall.

By the chorus, I'm more confident in my steps and she lets me lead us around the dance floor. It’s a heady feeling to have her relinquish control to me. She holds every aspect of her life in a tight grip, but she’s giving me this.

Small refractions of light dance over her skin. My eyes dart in every direction chasing it like a cat. She is glowing and I want to bask in her. I want to get on my knees and worship this woman. Just the thought has me digging my fingers deeper into her back.

Her eyes shutter and she pulls me closer. It’s not really that kind of dance but she doesn’t seem to care. I don’t either. I want Wren. So much, it’s becoming a problem. I need to tell her, but how?

How do you tell your best friend you think she’s the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen? Not just because she’s gorgeous on the outside but because you know all her insides are beautiful too.

Friends don’t say things like that. Not when they’re wrapped up in each other’s arms slow dancing like they’re desperate for each other.

Dancing like they want to say fuck it and not worry about the consequences.

That isn’t Wren though. She weighs out every outcome. She doesn’t have ‘fuck it’ moments in her life.

Just once I wish she would and use it on me.

Thankfully the song ends before I can shove my foot in my mouth. I put some much needed distance between Wren and my growing erection. “I need a shot,” I announce.

“Yeah, okay.” She takes a step back and wraps her arms around her middle. Fuck. I’m messing this up.

Hope you like the taste of leather you idiot because you’re going to be eating your boot.

I trudge behind her to the bar. Some guy with a black cowboy hat offers Wren his seat. I see now why Koa makes his presence known when Syd is working. This guy is creepy with his smarmy smile. He’s looking at Wren like she’s going to be his alarm clock tomorrow morning.

I don’t think so buddy. If any man is going to be waking up to Wren in the morning, it’s going to be me.

Stepping up behind Wren, I wrap my arm around her and glare at Slick Rick to back the fuck off. Wren doesn’t protest. She leans into my chest and I smirk at the guy.

Once Lauren passes him a drink, he leaves and transfers his attention to a group of girls a few bar stools down.

“Can I get you something to drink?” Lauren asks, wiping down the counter in front of us.

“Two shots of tequila and two beers please,” Wren requests. “What did you want?” She turns to me.

You. The word could easily slip from my lips.

“Funny,” I say instead.

“I keep telling you I’m fun. You refuse to believe me," Wren says as Lauren drops off our drinks and scurries back to Hart at the other end of the bar.

“I never said you weren’t funny. I said you didn’t know how to have fun.”

“Do you still believe that?” she asks.

Wren slides a shot in my direction and reaches across me to snag a salt shaker. The brush of her arm against mine makes the hair stand on end. The light touch is nothing compared to the vision of Wren licking salt off the back of her hand.

I clear all the desire from my throat. “I’m learning there is more to you than meets the eye,” I say, watching her lips wrap around the shot glass and the way her throat moves delicately as she swallows.

“Your turn,” she says, wiping lime juice off her lip with her pointer finger. I stare at her dazed, swiping my tongue over my lips. “Wyatt.” She nods toward the salt and tequila.

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