Page 7 of An Unfinished Memory

How was he here? He’d missed his niece and nephew’s performance. The street dance would either be over soon or rained out.

He’d missed a special occasion. Like usual.

“What are you doing?” I furiously whispered. “You missed the recital.”

“I know.” A muscle in his rigid jaw flexed. A dark dusting of stubble traced his jaw. I knew what those tiny dark hairs felt like when he ran his chin across my neck or up my thigh.

A shiver traced down my spine, stopping where his arm was banded around me.

He spun me around the roped-off dance area like he owned me.

Once upon a time, he did. But he’d picked his career over me. Every time.

“I was dancing with Jennings.” I summoned as much irritation as I could. The claim was supposed to cement the fact that I was a single woman who didn’t answer to him, but my hand clutched his, begging him not to let me go.

“You were tripping over Jennings,” he growled.

The way he expertly maneuvered me around, spinning and two-stepping, I didn’t have to think. He did all the work. All the thinking. In the process, he made me feel cherished, which only stoked how upset I was. These moments were often fleeting. “It’s none of your business.”

“Nope,” he said and didn’t elaborate.

I didn’t like arguing with him, but I could’ve used it.Energy was zinging under my skin. Excitement. Anticipation. For what? I learned with Wilder, those emotions led to a whole lot of nothing.

Unless it came to sex.

The song died down, but he didn’t stop moving with me. The guy who intended to cut between me and Jennings approached again, but Wilder shot him a dark look and gave him one curt shake of his head.

The audacity.

The stark relief that I wouldn’t have to be pressed against anyone but Wilder again.

I needed to go. I liked this too much, and this man had already broken my heart. I stiffened. Wilder didn’t let up. He kept moving us as the bass player nailed down a beat. Dammit, I let him. I was emotionally drained and running on autopilot.

“Hey, folks.” The band leader spoke, his hand flat on the guitar strings. “It’s looking like rain, and it’s looking fiercer than what our little canopy can protect us from. We’re going to turn into DJs and keep playing you some music while we pack up our equipment.”

A country ballad blasted out of the speakers. Wilder slowed down but kept me pressed close to him.

“Why’d you come? Don’t you have work?” I asked bitterly, trying to keep up the resentment when all I could concentrate on was his strong body.

“Not until tomorrow.”

“You didn’t answer the first question.”

That muscle flexed in the corner of his jaw, but he gazed down at me with those fathomless brown eyes I’d gotten lost in too many times to count. He steered us around another couple. I wasn’t aware other people were still dancing.

“You answer one first,” he said.

“What?”

He brushed that intense gaze over my face, dipping down to the hint of cleavage showing through the top of my dress. “How you been?”

I basked in his question as much as I loathed it. I worked my jaw back and forth. “Fine.”

“Really?”

“That’s two questions.”

“You asked four,” he pointed out.

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