A Groom For The Taking: The Wedding Date. Элли Блейк

so hard on her fingernail it stung.

      Wincing, she snuck a glance across the table to where the man himself sat, all six feet four inches of him, sprawled out in his chair, long fingers clasped around a glass of beer, smiling contentedly as he watched Elyse and Tim belt out ‘Islands in the Stream’ on the karaoke stage.

      ‘I’m sorry?’

      She blinked, realising he was leaning towards her, one eyebrow cocked, the edge of his mouth lifted in the remnants of a smile. How did the man manage to make even the word sorry sound so sexy?

      ‘Did you say something?’ he asked, almost shouting to be heard over the music.

      ‘Nope. Nothing going on over here. All quiet my end.’

      He looked at her a beat longer. His deep grey eyes burning into her. Heat she’d never sensed from him before was now arcing across the table and turning her knees to butter. When he finally looked away she let out a long, slow breath.

      Something had shifted back there. But how much? How far? She was confused and jumpy and prickling with anticipation all at once.

      Then she asked the question she’d been finding any way to avoid. Was she looking at the early stages of a fling? She gave in to a delicious shiver that tumbled through her from top to toe.

      But no. No way. Anything but that. Not with the boss. She’d worked too hard to prove herself indispensable—irreplaceable, even—to turn into a cliché now.

      She leant her chin on her palm and bobbed her head in time with the music, all the while watching him from the corner of her eye.

      She’d have to see something way beyond fling on the horizon to even consider that kind of risk. Whereas Bradley … She knew first-hand that the women who dated Bradley were lucky if they stayed on his mobile phone longer than a month.

      Her enigmatic, heartlessly delicious, emotionally stunted boss suddenly picked up his chair and plonked it down beside hers.

      She leaned away. ‘If you can’t see from there I’ll happily switch places.’

      ‘Stay.’ He placed a hand over hers, cupping it on the table. ‘I don’t plan on shouting to be heard all evening.’

      She slid her hand away and used it to scratch her non-itchy head.

      ‘Elyse is a pretty fair singer too, you know,’ he drawled. ‘How did you miss that gene?’

      Hannah shook the cotton wool from her head. ‘That’s what you came over here to say? Not Are you’re having a good time, Hannah? Or Can I get you another drink, Hannah? But what’s with the talent deficiency? You are a charmer.’

      He laughed softly—a low rumble that whispered to all the deep, dark feminine places inside her. Serious face on, he was heart-stoppingly gorgeous. Smiling, he was devastating. Laughing, he was … a dream.

      This man had been hitting on her? Her? Sensible, back-chatting, small-town Hannah Gillespie? She felt it, but couldn’t quite believe it.

      Needing to know for sure, to see if her radar was so rusty it was no longer even functional, she turned in her chair, giving him her most flirtatious smile.

      ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘just so we can put this topic to bed once and for all—’

      He raised an eyebrow. Her heart rate quickened. And all the places his large warm hands had glanced that night pulsed.

      Hannah met his raised eyebrow and raised him another. ‘I’m talking, of course, about my lack of singing and dancing skills.’

       ‘Riiight.’

      ‘I don’t want you sitting there feeling all sorry for me because I can’t do a series of triple-spins while belting out “I Dreamed a Dream”.’

      When he opened his mouth, she held up a hand. ‘Before you ask, all I’ll admit is that routine had fake peacock feathers and sequinned masquerade masks.’

      ‘I was going to say that I don’t feel the least bit sorry for you. A woman doesn’t have to be able to sing and dance to have it going on.’

      He lifted his beer and finished it in one slow swallow. All she could do was stare.

      Oh, yeah. Bradley was flirting, all right. Batting her about like a lion with a moth. She wondered what she might do if he decided to stop playing and get serious. The very idea petrified her to the spot.

      Even in the low light of the club she could see the gleam in his eyes. The thrill of the chase.

      Utterly out of her depth, she reached for her drink.

      Bradley got there first, snatching it out of her way. But not before her fingers had brushed across his. Pure and unadulterated sexual attraction wrapped itself around her like a wet rope, slippery and unyielding. And even in the darkness she was sure his pupils had grown so large the colour of his eyes was completely obscured.

      From an accidental touch of fingers. Oh, God …

      Bradley swirled the ice around in her drink. Once. Twice. Each time ice hit glass her nerves twanged sharply—like an out-of-tune guitar.

      She sat on her hands and bit her lip. He’s your boss. You love your job. He’s not looking for for ever. And you are. Just allowing this flirtation to continue is going to change everything.

      He lifted her drink to his mouth and took a sip. The press of his lips where her lips had just been made her tingle in the most aching anticipation.

      Then his face screwed up as if he’d just sucked on a lemon. ‘Holy heck—that’s atrocious! How can you drink this slop?’

      ‘It’s not slop!’

      ‘What on earth’s in it?’

      ‘Whisky, lemon juice, sugar, and a dash of egg white.’

      ‘Are you serious?’

      He picked up his empty beer glass and practically ran his tongue around the rim in search of leftover foam. Hannah’s limbs went limp so quickly she had to look away.

      ‘It was my father’s favourite drink. So clearly it’s meant for a palate far more discerning than yours.’

      To prove it, she put the glass to her mouth and took a giant swig—only instead of tasting the sharp mix of ingredients that had always felt nothing but warm and comforting, she was certain she could taste a whisper of beer as left by Bradley’s lips.

      She slammed the glass to the table, then pushed back her chair. ‘I need to … do some urgent maid of honour things.’

      He crossed his arms and looked at her a long time. ‘Right now?’

      ‘You know I don’t like leaving things till the last minute. Boss.’

       There. Put things back in perspective. Remind him who you are. Who he is. How things are meant to work between you.

      ‘Need company?’ A slow smile slid across his face, proving he was apparently happy to forget.

      As he began to uncurl his large lanky self from the chair she backed up so fast she bumped into some poor woman who spilt her drink. Hannah pulled her emergency ten dollars from her cleavage and shoved it in the girl’s hand.

      Bradley sank back into the chair, his eyes glued to her décolletage as though he was wondering what other secrets she held down there. None to write home about! she wanted to shout.

      Instead she demanded, ‘Sit. Drink. Grab a lighter and sway. Whatever gets you through the night. I’ll come find you later.’

      And with that she spun and, head down, feet going a mile a minute, took off through any gap she could find.

      Until that moment she’d enjoyed her crush on him because it had never had a chance of going