Page 169 of Royal Bargain
Our eyes meet, and his brow lifts—just slightly—like he’s trying to figure out where I came from.
I arch a brow right back.
He nods at my empty glass. “Looks like you could use a refill.”
I glance at the bartender, then back at him. “What gave it away? The glass or the emotionally unstable dancing?” That earns me a laugh. Warm. Surprised.
Okay, maybedangerouslycute.
“Both,” he says, signaling the bartender. “But don’t worry—I like a little chaos.”
I tilt my head. “Then you’re in the right place.”
The bartender slides me another glass. He lifts his to mine. “To crashing parties you weren’t invited to,” he says.
I clink his glass with mine. “To being the reason they never forget it.”
For a second, we just stand there. The sounds of clinking glasses and distant laughter wrap around us. His gaze never leaves mine.
“So…” he says, like he’s trying to solve a puzzle, “what’s your story?”
I take another sip. “Let’s just say I’ve got excellent taste in music, bad taste in men, and a talent for being where I shouldn’t be.”
He lets out a low whistle. “Dangerous.”
I wink. “You have no idea.”
He leans in, just a little, voice dropping low. “Dance with me.”
“I thought you looked bored.”
“I was,” he says. “Now I’m not.”
I let him lead me onto the dance floor, champagne still in one hand, the other slipping into his like it was always meant to be there.
He’s good—confident, easy on his feet, and he doesn’t step on my toes even once, which is more than I can say for most men I’ve danced with.
“Question,” I say, spinning under his arm, “Are you ever going to tell me your name, or do I get to keep calling you Tall, Dark, and Bored?”
He chuckles, then leans in like he’s about to whisper a secret. “It’s Lucky.”
I blink. “Sorry—what?”
He grins, full of mischief. “Lucky Brannagan.”
“Oh,thatLucky,” I say, recognition dawning. “Explains the expensive suit and the general air of Catholic guilt.”
He laughs—actually laughs—and it’s a nice sound. Rich. Unforced.
“And you?” he asks, though I can tell he already knows.
I lift my chin. “Emilie Gunnerson.”
“I figured,” he says, spinning me again. “You were on the news last week, weren’t you?”
My smile falters. “Allegedly.”
He gives me a look that’s equal parts amused and intrigued. “Something about a nightclub, a smoke machine, and a city councilman’s wife?”
