Page 74 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
Juliet turns toward me. “Are you two having a moment?”
“Jett’s being an asshole.”
“So, it’s Tuesday?” she says dryly, making Jett sputter with laughter.
The girls decide it’s time to dance. Ivy grabs Juliet’s hand and drags her toward the dance floor with Wren and Jessa following.
“Time to hit the floor, ladies.”
Jett begs them to stay in the VIP section. “Can’t you just dance here? It’s safer.”
“Safer is boring,” Ivy tells him.
“Fine, but we’re coming with you,” Jett says.
“Obviously,” Juliet smirks. “You boys can’t help yourselves.”
Half the team follows them like puppies. I pull Juliet into my arms, her body warm against mine. The music pounds around us, bass thumping through my chest.
She moves against me, hips swaying, and I have to fight to keep my thoughts clean. Her skirt rides up slightly as she dances. I rest my hands on her waist, pulling her closer.
“You’re staring,” she says, lips close to my ear.
“Hard not to.”
“Good.” She spins in my arms, her back pressed against my chest now. “That’s the point.”
Some guy edges closer, clearly checking her out. I growl low in my throat and pull her tighter against me. She feels the vibration and tilts her head back to look at me.
“Possessive much?”
“Just playing the part,” I say, but my voice comes out rougher than intended.
“Are you?” Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “Because I think you actually like this.”
Another guy tries to cut in, tapping my shoulder. “Mind if I?—”
“Yes, I mind.” I don’t even look at him, keeping my eyes on Juliet.
She bites her lip, suppressing a smile. “You know what?”
I look down at her. Always down. Her head barely reaches my chest, and it kills me she still squares up like she’s taller than me. “What?”
“I like it when you get all growly and protective.”
That admission hits me like a puck to the chest. “Juliet?—”
“It’s kind of hot,” she continues, completely unaware of what her words are doing to me. “The way you look at other guys when they get too close. Like you want to murder them.”
“Maybe I do.”
She laughs, spinning to face me again. Her hands slide up my chest, fingers playing with the collar of my shirt. “My big, scary fake fiancé.”
The way she says it, breathless and teasing, makes something snap inside me. I’ve been watching her dance for an hour, the way her body moves, the way she keeps looking at me with those dark eyes. She’s been testing me, pushing my buttons, seeing how far she can go.
“You’ve been doing this on purpose,” I say, backing her toward a slightly quieter corner of the dance floor.
“Doing what?”
