Page 9 of Worth the Trouble

But something about the man in front of me stirs something foreign.

Maybe it’s the fact that he has the kind of stare there’s no escaping. Dark, infinite, echoing. Or maybe it’s the third eye tattoo on the center of his throat watching me like a bad omen. But my confidence is faltering.

I take a step back and break his gaze just to be safe. I don’t like that all it seems to take is one look for him to let himself inside my head without knocking. Like he’s tapping the ice. Hairline fractures spreading.

“Sorry.” I brush past him, keeping my eyes up this time so I don’t run anyone else over.

“That’s it?” he says with an amused laugh that’s almost haunting. “You could at least tell me your name, sweetheart.”

Stopping with my back to him, I take a deep breath and count.

One, two, three, four.

Five, six, seven, eight.

I swear there’s static in the air. It’s pulsing, pulling me in all directions when I’m usually perfectly collected.

I should keep walking because, as Mom reminded me, the last thing I need right now are distractions. But something about this man with his overconfident laugh and third eye tattoo inches under my skin, and I have this unexplainable need to prove myself.

“I’m not your sweetheart.” I spin to face him.

Bad idea.

He’s a foot away, and even though I’m fairly tall, I have to crane my neck back to look him in the eyes. His tattooed arms are crossed over his chest and his smirk ticks higher as he rakes his teeth over his bottom lip again.

He narrows his eyes and I feel the game playing in them. One he seems confident he’ll win. His eyes skim me like he’s sizing me up and wants to take whatever he sees in me for himself.

Little does he know that would require me to have something of my own in the first place.

“What?” I snap when he doesn’t say anything.

I’m usually soft-spoken, so I’m not sure why he’s drawing this edge from my tone.

“You’re a dancer?” His eyes pause on my leg warmers.

I grip my purse, not liking how he seems to be mentally evaluating me and writing a list of assumptions in his brain. “Maybe.”

His dark stare flicks back to mine. “I must be in luck then because I’m feeling lonely.”

“Lonely?” I repeat it like a question because I’m not sure what he’s talking about.

But then he sweeps his gaze over me before shooting me a suggestive smile, and I realize exactly what he’s saying.

“Did you just insinuate what I think you did?”

Somehow this man has the uncanny ability to bring my blood to a boil in the span of one minute. Because I’m pretty sure he actually thinks I’d strip for him.

“It was worth a shot.” He shrugs one shoulder.

“For your information, I’m notthatkind of dancer.” I tip my chin up.

He grins. “Noted.”

Every response is casual and nonchalant. Like he’s pushing buttons simply for a reaction. Saying whatever he has to in order to get one. The smile crossing his cheeks shows me he’s satisfied he did. And every gesture I offer in return he takes as a challenge.

“So if you’renot that kind of dancer,what are you?” he asks, almost mocking.

“What are you?” I throw his own question back at him, even if I know I shouldn’t.

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