Page 6 of Menace in Vegas

When he pulled me close, his arms wrapped around me, everything went hot and sharp and out of control.

No. Not thinking about it.

Just keep singing.

When the song ends, I stumble off the chair, the warmth of the champagne settling in my veins.

I am thriving.

Until I glance over at him.

Connor is watching me, a scowl on his face.

He clutches a drink in his hand, looking like he’s two seconds away from dragging me off the chair and shoving me into a padded room.

What the hell is his problem?

I stalk toward him, crossing my arms. "Why are you looking at me like that?"

He doesn’t flinch. "Like what?"

"Like I just kicked a puppy."

His jaw clenches. "Maybe because you’re standing on a fucking chair, singing like your life depends on it, pretending you’re totally fine."

I freeze.

And for a split second, something in my chest cracks.

I scowl, pushing past it. "It’s called having fun, Byrns. Try it sometime."

He doesn’t say anything. Just watches me — like he sees straight through me.

And I hate it.

I hate that he looks concerned.

I hate that he makes my stomach tighten.

Most of all, I hate that he’s right.

So, I do what any emotionally repressed woman in denial would do.

I grab his shirt and drag him toward the nearest bathroom.

* * *

The moment the door closes,I shove him against it.

Connor blinks."Allie, what the hell?”

His voice is low, rough, like he’s trying to hold himself back. "You’re drunk. This isn’t?—"

I kiss him.

It’s desperate and messy, like I’m trying to erase every lingering ache in my chest with his mouth.

He freezes, but only for a second.

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