Page 69 of Her Remarkable Protector

“Impressive,” he deadpans, wiping his sleeve. “You’ve got a real knack for chaos.”

“Oh, shut up,” I say, laughing as I grab a napkin to clean up the mess.

He smirks. “Hey, at least you didn’t hit the guy in the Hawaiian shirt over there. That’s progress.”

“Progress? I’ll show you progress,” I mutter, grabbing a fry and flicking it at him.

He catches it midair, pops it into his mouth with a smug grin, and says, “Nice try. You’re up against a pro.” Then he freezes, his eyes locked on me, struggling to hold back a laugh.

“What?”

He bursts out laughing. “No offense, but you look like a walking Picasso.”

I glare at him, snatching another napkin to wipe my face. But then I catch a glimpse of myself in my pocket mirror and groan.

“Oh my God.”

My red lipstick is everywhere—smeared across my mouth, chin, and, somehow, my nose. I look like a clown who went ten rounds with a bucket of wings and lost.

Chase, ever the gentleman, offers to help, but I know better. His idea of help would just make things worse. I snatch the napkin from his hand and furiously scrub at my face.

Goodbye, red lipstick. We had a good run.

Eventually, I settle myself, sitting up straight as if nothing happened. This is my attempt at cowgirl cool—though, let’s be honest, it’s lessYellowstoneand moreI Love Lucywith a side of hot sauce. Chase leans back, appraising me.

“Do I look okay?” I ask.

He flashes a crooked smile—a little too charming for his own good. “You’re all right.” Then he stands and extends a hand. “Ready?”

“Ready for what?” I narrow my eyes, catching the faintest glint of mischief in his.

“Dance with me.”

I pull back instinctively, shaking my head. “No way!”

“Please,” he says, with just enough charm to make me consider it.

“At the end of the first dance, your feet will be as flat as a beaver’s tail,” I warn.

Chase throws his head back, laughing. “Lucky for you, my feet are indestructible.”

I glance down at the literal boats he calls boots. Okay, he has a point. Still, I hesitate.

Before I can protest further, he grabs my hand and pulls me up, his grin practically daring me to argue. He leads me to the small dance floor near the jukebox, where a slow, twangy tune plays.

Chase’s hand rests against the small of my back, and for a moment, I notice how it fits there—like it was made for the space. His palm presses gently.Holy cowboy!I’ve never thought much about a man’s hands before, but his? They feel like they could bench press a truck and still have room to hold me.

His other hand takes mine, his fingers curling gently. There’s no hurry, no demand in the way he holds me—just patience.

“Sorry,” I mutter.

“You’re doing fine.”

I glance up at him, catching the curve of his lips. Just as I start to relax, my foot crashes onto his boot again—this time with the grace of a falling anvil. I wince. “Told you it was a bad idea!”

Chase’s grin holds, but something shifts in his expression—determination, maybe. “Let me try one last thing. I swear, you’ll have fun.”

I want to argue, to point out that messy wings are my version of fun, not this disaster-in-motion. But he’s trying so hard, so I sigh and nod, giving him the benefit of the doubt.

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