Page 25 of Defending her Heart

Line dances aren’t my thing, but they’re fun to watch. I step off the dance floor and bump into Nash.

“Leaving so soon?”

“Yup.”

He’s back to short, gruff sentences. Great. “You haven’t even danced. Word on the street is you used to tear up the dance floor in your younger years, old man.”

“Operative word there isusedto.”

Because misery loves company, and to be fair, I don’t mind Nash’s company, I grab his wrist and tug him onto the floor.

“No way in Hell.”

“Come on. It’s almost over.” I make an exaggerated show of the moves and he stands with his arms crossed, clearly not amused.

I’m terrible at following along with the dance, and his lip quirks. Okay. Maybe he’s slightly amused. When the annoyingsong is over andSave a Horse, Ride a Cowboycomes on, I tug him farther onto the dance floor and dance around him, similar to how Miles danced around the girls and me earlier.

Only, I make contact when I grind my front into Nash’s rock-solid ass. I skirt around his thigh and ride the thick quad muscle while swaying my arms in the air, singing along to the song. Still, he doesn’t move.

Not even a twitch in his eye.

“Come on, Nash Potato. Your daughter is in good hands, your parents are feeling better, and the night is young. Loosen up. Dance with me.”

His eyes darken and his arms reach for me, his hands lightly skimming up the outside of my thighs until they’re resting on my hips. I keep my eyes locked on his but he keeps his on his hands or over my shoulder.

By the third song, the tension in his shoulders has relaxed and I think he’s actually having a good time. There’s heat in my chest I don’t recognize. Lust is normal for me. I appreciate a good looking man, and Nash is way beyond good looking. It’s an insult to describe him in such a basic way.

He’s chiseled perfection. Hotter than Hades’s ass crack. And,fuck, that ass. As tempted as I am to reach around and grab it, I don’t. When Nash’s dark gaze meets mine, my insides quiver. And by insides, I mean the walls of my vagina.

His tongue wets the corner of his lips and I nearly cream my panties. If it was a practiced move, I’d roll my eyes, but I’m almost certain it was as natural as a wolf’s howl at a full moon.

Miles comes behind me and rests his giant hands on my shoulders. “Hey, baby. You two are making me jealous over here.” He dances behind me, pretending like he’s fucking my ass but actually keeps a semi-respectable distance between what has to be a monster cock and my backside.

For as flirty and stupid funny as Miles is, he’s not a creep. I adore him. “Join the party, stud.”

Nash drops his hands from my waist and pushes his way through the mass amounts of bodies who filled the dance floor over the past fifteen minutes, and heads to the table we vacated. I watch as he takes out his wallet and drops a stack of bills on the table before storming his way to the rear entrance of the restaurant.

“Moody fucker, huh?” Miles shrugs. A blonde bimbo starts grinding on his thigh, similar to how I was making a fool of myself on Nash a few minutes ago, and his attention leaves me.

Not one to back down from an altercation, I rush out the door and track down Nash. “Hey!” I call across the parking lot.

He turns, shakes his head, and continues his trek to his car.

“Nash. What’s going on?” I’m out of breath by the time I reach him. “Is it Paisley?” I didn’t see him check his phone so I’m pretty sure that’s not what spooked him.

“No.” He unlocks his car but before he can open the door, I slide between him and his vehicle.

“What is it?” I don’t know what gives me the right to press him, but I’ve grown close to his daughter over the past few weeks and part of me cares about his family.

While his teammates seem to like and respect him, he’s standoffish, even in the group. There’s more to it than him being an introvert. From the research I’ve done on him—because, yeah, I’m that girl—he was the life of the party back in his heyday. A partier in college, yet focused on his studies and football. When he let loose, he let loose.

And from articles and interviews I dug up on his early NFL career, he was a different Nash Humphries, flashing his killer smile, showing off dimples I didn’t realize he had, and making flirty comments as smooth and ridiculous as Miles Buckingham’s.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. We were dancing. You were having fun. Admit it. Then you got spooked and bolted. What gives?”

“What gives?” He pierces me with those dark eyes, his back molars clenched as he breaths deep through his nose. “What gives?”

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