Page 27 of The Fangirl and the Grump

“Some of us are working, Will,” he says with a shrug.

“Ugh. I told you not to call me that,” she groans, then slides off her stool to look at me and Trace. “The band will be starting up soon. We should find a table before they’re all taken.”

She grabs her fresh shot and throws it back before setting the glass back on the bar. I grab mine and follow suit. Without a word, Trace does the same, and Bram promises to send over round three in a few while handing Willow a pitcher of water and three empty glasses.

Taking Bram’s offering, Willow leads the way through the crowd to a round table in the back with four chairs. We slide into two of them, and Trace takes the seat next to his sister, leaving the empty chair between us. Taking the pitcher, he fills each glass with water.

“I’m a lightweight,” Willow explains as she takes a sip. “Bram insists I stay well-hydrated when I’m drinking so I don’t pass out on the floor.”

“Hydration is never a bad idea,” I say, knocking my glass against hers before drinking half of it down.

True to his promise, Bram sends over a round of drinks, but this time, instead of shots, the blue cocktails are in tall glasses, complete with straws, orange slices, and paper umbrellas. Trace grunts––the only sound he’s made since we sat down––and snatches the umbrella out of his glass before tossing it to the table. Willow rolls her eyes as she shakes her head, then pushes the tiny umbrella in her glass aside as she takes a small sip.

I feel like our table is trapped in a bubble of tension, and I don’t like it. This was supposed to be a fun night out to celebrate my first day of work. I’m determined to have a good time, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let Mr. Grumpypants ruin it for me.

Plucking the umbrella from my drink, I twirl the stem between my thumb and forefinger while I suck down half the drink through my straw. I feel Trace’s eyes on me,judgingme, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of letting him know I noticed his judgement.

Releasing the straw, I take a deep breath and wiggle in my seat.Woo. Bram made these strong. Guess he knew we’d need it.

Willow starts chattering about the shop as the band begins to play a cover of a popular eighties hit. I chime in to keep the conversation going, but Trace remains mute. I see him tracing the condensation on his glass with a finger from the corner of my eye––since I refuse to look directly at him––and I wonder why he’s even still here.

His sister made it clear she wanted us to get to know each other, but he’s not even trying to contribute to the conversation. And if I’m being honest with myself, I’m not trying to include him, either. I’m just as guilty as he is for keeping that invisible wall between us.

Willow shoots him a frown for the third time as I have that epiphany, and I sigh internally before sucking down the rest of my kamikaze. Slapping my hands to the table as the band shifts into a slow song, I push myself to my feet and stare at Trace so hard, he has no choice but to meet my eyes.

“Would you like to dance?” I ask, my narrow gaze daring him to say no.

“Not re––”

A grunt of pain cuts off his words as the glasses on the table rattle. His pained gaze shoots to Willow, who very obviously just kicked him, and he heaves out a long breath before looking back at me.

“I’d love to.”

Jesus. Make it sound like a prison sentence, why don’t you.

Despite his obvious aversion to the idea, he rounds the table and holds out a hand. I stare at it for a moment, and good God, his hands are huge. Reaching out slowly, I place my palm against his. Strong, warm fingers wrap around mine, and my breath hitches in my chest.

Is that…a spark?

No. No, no, no.Fuck.

How is it that the only man to which I have a physical reaction in this entire town is the one man who detests me above all others? And for the stupidest fucking reason, too.

I take a breath and settle my nerves as he leads me into the open area set up as a makeshift dance floor. Trace’s reason for being angry might be stupid to me, but it’s obviously not to him. I should probably apologize if I ever want to ease his animosity.

And I will. Eventually.

But right now, as he places one hand on my hip and keeps the other firmly closed around mine, I feel a bit dizzy. Man, the booze is hitting mehard. And itisthe booze. Nothing else. Couldn’t possibly be because Trace Bardin has his hands on me, and I’m reacting to it. Right?

“How old are you?” I blurt without thinking.

I need to break the tension and stop my own wildly ridiculous stream of thoughts.

“Too old for you,” he grumbles, and my head rears back an inch.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I snap. “I was just making conversation.”

That little tendon in his jaw bulges and retracts like he’s grinding his teeth before he sighs and says, “I’m thirty-nine.”

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