Page 9 of Hot Shot

“California Legspreader.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Chase grins, and Olympia and Chantal laugh.

We stand at a railing to watch the dancing for a while. On a catwalk, two girls wearing outfits similar to the bartender’s swing their long hair and shake their asses in little black shorts.

“Damn,” Chase mutters, eyes on one of the dancing girls. “She is hot.”

“Mmmm.” I can’t argue with that. Both girls are stunning, and the way they move to the music is mesmerizing. The beat infects me, making me shift my body in time to it. I love music, but I’m not the best dancer. I’ve had a few dance lessons and can now move a little and not make a complete fool of myself, but as a tall, gangly teenager I always felt awkward on the dance floor, like I was all wild arms and legs. I’ve never really gotten over that.

With our second drink in hand, we take to the floor as a group. A man near Carrie catches my eye and smiles and I smile back. He dances nearer to me. “Hi. I’m Brent.”

“Carrie.” I keep moving to the music, smiling.

“Was your dad a boxer? ’Cause you’re a knockout.”

I burst out laughing. “Um, thanks.”

Brent grins.

I dance with Brent then return to my friends for a few more songs before leaving the dance floor. I fan my face with my hand, warm from the crowd and the activity.

“Another Legspreader?” Chase asks.

“No, let’s get bottles.” Olympia leans on the bar, her long red hair flowing down her back She rises onto her tiptoes to shout across the bar, “Four bottles of champagne!”

My eyebrows rise and I shake my head. “Champagne?”

“It’s just cheap stuff.” She grins.

We return to the dance floor, sipping the bubbly wine straight from the bottle. The alcohol is definitely blurring everything for me, the lights and the bodies and the music whirling around me.

Then the DJ starts and things get even more crowded, everyone screaming and cheering as he’s introduced. I thrust my bottle into the air and cheer along with everyone else. Then I turn around and see . . . Marco.

I blink because it’s dark in here and the flashing lights make it hard to see at times, but yep, it’s him, leaning on the railing only a few feet from me. Watching me.

I lift my bottle to him in a sort of toast. He scowls.

I shrug and resume dancing, taking another swig of champagne. I’m having fun.

Is he here alone?

I risk a glance his way only to encounter his burning stare again. My skin heats even more. He does seem to be alone, but wait . . . not for long. One of the female servers, wearing yet another version of their uniform, a tight black halter top and silver sequined short shorts, appears at his side with a flirtatious smile and flutter of eyelashes.

Marco’s smile in return is warm. I don’t want to watch them talk and flirt, but I have a hard time dragging my gaze away from them. I toss my hair back and focus on the hip-hop music the DJ is spinning.

“I need to sit down,” Olympia yells over the music. “My feet are killing me.”

“Take off your shoes!” Chantal calls.

“I just want to sit.”

“Okay. I’ll come with you.” I take Olympia’s hand and we make our way through the crush, a little unsteady due to three-inch heels and champagne. We find a spot on a long purple banquette and collapse there laughing. Olympia now chooses to slip off her heels.

I sip my champagne again, and as I lower the bottle Marco appears in front of me.

“Hey, Supermodel,” he says with a frown. “You look wasted.”

My eyes pop open. “What? Wasted?”

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