Page 7 of A Wild Card Kiss
The way he says that—a soft Georgia lilt returning to his voice once more—makes my skin tingle. Yes, he could definitely strip down for me in private sometime.
But just so I don’t melt into a puddle on the dance floor, I turn up the tease. “But maybe I want you to do the polka.”
On cue, he steps to the left.
I step to the right a half-second later, and we both do a hop. A few more impromptu polka steps and I’m laughing too hard to continue. “I’ll admit, I did not expect you to know such an old-fashioned dance.”
“You underestimate me, Katie. Go ahead, try another,” he challenges. “Dance-stump me.”
I can play this game. “Fox trot.”
Harlan steps forward; I step back. I’m breathless with laughter again.
“My turn now?” he asks, all rumbly sexy.
“I did get two requests. Seems only fair to give you one.”
“Then we need to tango.” Harlan hauls me in close and with my hand in his, thrusts our arms out to the side.
No wonder this is the sexiest dance ever. You have to press your chest up against a hot man. Let’s tango all night long.
We dance deliciously close for a minute on the edge of the dance floor. I like the feel of his firm body very much. “All right. I’ll bite. Where did you learn to dance like that?”
“Chippendales,” he says as we settle into a casual slow dance sway.
“You moonlight at a dance club? Is that after your football games?”
He winks. “’Course it is.”
“Ha. Somehow, I doubt it,” I say. “Even with your smooth moves.”
Harlan smiles, runs a finger down my nose. “I’m from Georgia. A cotillion is mandatory.”
“Aha. The Southern charm explained,” I say, moving under the twinkling lights as the DJ cross-fades into “Never Tear Us Apart.”
“I dip into the accent now and again for fun. I’ve been on the West Coast for many years, but I ham it up with the guys and lay it on thick at practice, so they can all bust my chops about my supposedSouthern drawl.”
I flash a grin. “Better watch out or you might lose the chance to dip into the sound for…funall together.”
He feigns shock. “Whatever will I do without my Atlanta charm?”
I shrug helplessly. “You’ll just have to switch to San Francisco charm. Speaking of, how long have you lived here? You’ve been with the team for six years.”
He arches a brow, impressed or perhaps appreciative that I know that about him. “I have indeed. Before then I went to college in Washington.”
“A Husky?”
“Go dawgs,” he says.
“So, you’ve been out of the South and accent-free for quite some time now.”
“I have—ten years, to be precise—but when I’m with my sisters and Mom I sound all peachy again,” he says.
“And I probably sound like a…bluebonnet,” I say, sliding into the accent I lost long ago.
Harlan blinks, pulls back. “Whoa. I’d never have known you were from the Lone Star State.”
“Born and raised, but truth be told, we moved to California when I started high school. Though, you can never entirely take the Texas out of the girl.”
