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The whiskey has officially taken over my mind, set up camp, and doesn’t appear to be leaving anytime soon. Hardin is up to five shots, I lost count of mine after three, and I’m pretty sure Riley should be heaving on the floor from alcohol poisoning by now.
“I feel like this whiskey tastes good,” I remark, dipping my tongue into the chilled shot.
Next to me, Hardin laughs, and I lean into his shoulder and put my hand on his thigh. His eyes immediately follow my hand, and I quickly pull it away. I shouldn’t be acting like nothing happened earlier—I know I shouldn’t, but it’s easier said than done. Especially when I can barely think straight and Hardin looks so good in his white button-down shirt. I’ll deal with our problems tomorrow.
“See, all you needed was a little whiskey to loosen up.” Riley slams her empty shot glass on the bar top, and I giggle.
“What?” she barks.
“You and Hardin are the same.” I cover my mouth to conceal my obnoxious giggles.
“No we aren’t,” Hardin says, speaking at that slower pace he resorts to when he’s intoxicated. So does Riley.
“Yes—you are! It’s like a mirror.” I laugh. “Does Lillian know you’re here?” I swing my head to the side and ask her.
“Nope. She’s asleep for now.” She licks her lips. “But I fully intend on waking her up when I return.”
The music starts to increase in volume again, and I watch the copper-haired woman climb onto the bar for probably the fourth time tonight.
“Again?” Hardin scrunches his nose, and I laugh.
“I think it’s funny.” I think everything is funny right now.
“I think it’s lame, and it interrupts me every thirty minutes,” he gripes.
“You should go up there.” Riley nudges me.
“Up where?”
“The bar, you should dance on the bar.”
I shake my head and laugh. And blush. “No way!”
“Come on—you’ve been whining about being young and having fun, or whatever the hell you were going on and on about. Now’s your chance. Dance on the bar.”
“I can’t dance.” It’s true. I’ve only danced, excluding slow dancing, once, and that was at the nightclub in Seattle.
“No one will notice—they’re all even more wasted than you.” She raises a brow, challenging me.
“No fucking way,” Hardin says.
Through my drunken haze I remember one thing: I’m sure as hell done letting him tell me what I can and can’t do.
Without a word, I reach down and unfasten the horribly uncomfortable straps around my ankles and let my high heels drop to the floor.
Hardin’s eyes are wide as I climb on top of the stool, then onto the bar. “What are you doing?” He stands and looks behind us as the few patrons left in the bar begin to cheer. “Tess . . .”
The song gets louder, and the woman who has been serving us drinks smiles wickedly at me and takes my hand. “Do you know any line dances, honey?” she yells
I shake my head, suddenly unsure of myself.
“I’ll teach you!” she yells.
What the hell was I thinking? I just wanted to prove a point to Hardin, and look where it got me—on top of a bar getting ready to attempt a dance . . . of some kind. I’m not even sure what a line dance is, exactly. If I’d known I was going to be up here, I would have planned it out better and paid more attention to the women when they were dancing earlier.
Chapter forty-eight
HARDIN
Riley’s looking up at Tessa standing in front of her on the bar. “Damn, I didn’t think she would actually do it!” she calls.
Neither did I, but then again, she seems determined to push my buttons tonight.
Riley looks at me, her face aglow. “She’s quite the wild child.”
“No . . . she’s not,” I quietly disagree. Tessa looks mortified, obviously second-guessing her impulsive decision. “I’m going to help her down.” I begin to lift my hand up, but Riley smacks it down.
“Let her do it, man.”
I look at Tessa again. The woman who made our drinks is speaking to her, but I can’t make out what she’s saying. This is absolute bullshit, her dancing on a bar in a short-ass dress. If I was to lean onto the bar, I could see up her dress, as can anyone else at the bar. It occurs to me that Riley probably already is. I glance down the bar both ways, take note that neither of the greasy men at the opposite end are eyeing her. Yet.
Tessa watches the woman next to her, her brows furrowed in concentration—completely the opposite of her sudden need to be “wild.” She follows the movements of the old gal and kicks out one of her legs, then the other, followed by a swift movement of her hips.
“Sit down and enjoy the show,” Riley says next to me, sliding over one of her backup drinks.
I’m drunk—too drunk—but my mind is clear as I watch Tessa begin to move, really fucking move. Her hands go to her hips, and she finally smiles, no longer caring that she has the full attention of almost everyone in the bar. Her eyes meet mine, and she fumbles her dance moves momentarily before collecting herself and directing her eyes to the back of the room.
“Hot, isn’t it?” Riley smiles next to me as she brings her glass to her lips.
Yes, obviously, watching Tessa on the bar is hot as hell, but it’s also infuriating and unexpected. The first thought that comes to mind is: Fuck, this is hot. The second thought is that I shouldn’t be so engrossed in it and should be irritated at her constant need to defy me. But I can’t think straight because of that first thought and the fact that she’s dancing right in front of me.