Page 12 of Luck of the Draw

And maybe the crazy in this town had already rubbed off on me, because I didn’t want to send my Cinderella away without at least talking to her. And if she wasn’t here to mess with the newly married couple, I wasn’t so sure I’d send her away at all.

But the reception was crowded, and if she’d come back, I didn’t catch a single glimpse of her—even though I looked hard enough that Daniel asked if there was something wrong with my eyes.

Finally, it came time for Daniel and me to tap out for the other bartenders. The instant our shift ended, he grabbed another handful of mints and poured himself a lemon drop martini. Grinning, he said, “I made this batch super strong.”

“You know, you could have just made yourself a separate drink.”

“Huh, I guess you’re right.” He shrugged. “Oh well. This way we all get to cut loose.”

And we’d single-handedly be responsible for an Uber surge.

He headed into the crowd, sidling up to a single lady—who instantly turned to dance with her friend—but I stayed back to grab ice for the guys replacing us. And also because I had to decide what the hell to do about those shoes. I didn’t know much about ladies’ fashion, but they looked expensive, and if she didn’t have them, what was she wearing on her feet?

Shouldn’t I make sure to get them back to her?

Maybe that was a Saint Dylan kind of thought, but I had to admit I wasn’t interested in staying for saintly reasons. There weren’t many women here who could fill out a dress like that, and her face was this mix of sweet and sexy, with those full lips and…

Shit, if I kept it up, I’d need to dump the ice on myself.

It was then, midway through that thought, that I looked up and saw her directly in front of me at the bar. Dave, my replacement, was holding two drinks out to her, but she ignored them, her gaze glued to mine the same way it had been earlier, plenty of heat passing between us, and this time I was sure she was going to stick around and talk.

Except she took off again, just when I’d recovered enough to step forward.

In my peripheral vision, I caught a glimpse of Dave shrugging and then lifting one of the cups to his mouth for a sip, but I was already racing after her.

She was fast, but this time there were almost two hundred people gathered around us. Still, she might have gotten away—escape favored people who weren’t as big as me—but she tripped on something.

I staggered to a stop, my knee twinging hard, and held out a hand to her. The people around us were staring. One woman had been lifting what looked like a cream puff to her mouth, and she missed and got it stuck in her hair. But a couple of guys whose physiques and expensive suits suggested high-paying office jobs exchanged a look and got out of their seats.

“Is this guy bothering you?” one of them asked.

Given that I had fifty pounds of muscle on him, he was brave to ask, and under other circumstances I’d have been impressed. His friend hung back behind him, clearly less eager to make a fuss now that he’d gotten a good look at me.

I glanced down at Cinderella, wondering if she was the kind of woman who’d take the out. It would be easy for her to tell them I was giving her trouble, and to use whatever kind of scene ensued to make her escape.

But her eyes widened in horror, and she mutely shook her head, accepting my hand with a firm grasp of soft fingers.

“No,” she said as I lifted her up, and I realized it was the first time I’d heard her voice. It was soft and sweet, like the rolling mountains around us, but with a flinty strength behind it. “We were…playing a game.”

“Ohhh,” the first guy said, backing up, and from the way he said it, it was obvious he thought this was some kind of role-playing thing.

Which I probably shouldn’t be thinking about with her hand tucked into mine.

“Speaking of which,” I said, “I think I won this round, Cinderella. Last time I got your shoes. What do I get this time?”

Her would-be rescuer backed up further, bumping into the lady whose cream puff had left a liberal dusting of whipped topping in her hair.

“Hey,” she snapped, “find your own place to watch the show.”

But I only noticed them in my peripheral vision because my gaze was firmly on Cinderella. She’d flushed prettily, a flush that traveled to her chest and her face, but she didn’t pull away. I’d been challenging her, I realized, wanting to see how she’d react.

“What do you want?” she asked.

Iwanteda kiss. The way she tipped her head up, looking at me with those soulful eyes, told me she expected me to ask. Maybe she even wanted me to. But it would be a dick move, and there was at least a grain of truth to the Saint Dylan nickname. While I was game for whatever she wanted—even if Cinderella role-playing was her kink—I wasn’t going to take what she didn’t willingly give.

So I shook my head softly and said, “I just want to talk.”

Was that disappointment in her eyes?

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