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Lyla

H azel bursts through the back doors of The Miami Improv just in time—I’m pretty sure I was getting completely lost in this guy’s gray eyes. I don’t even know his name, but wow. Who knew that someone wiping lipstick off of your face could be so . . . captivating?

I’m sure he’s not at all captivated—I mean, I basically looked like a toddler who wore her mommy’s makeup and got it everywhere and he had to clean me up. Except, the way he’s looking at me, I’m not so sure.

“ Chiquita, mi amor , let’s gooooooo!” Hazel’s voice cuts the moment clean in half. I suddenly feel very awkward getting caught out here with him, like I’ve done something wrong. I smooth my hands down my blue dress, feeling his eyes following the movement.

“Where we headed?” Tattoo Guy drawls, flashing an easy smile. It’s somehow both charming and cocky—this guy knows he’s good looking, and yet, I don’t fault him for that. Maybe because he’s looking at me like he knows I’m good looking too. A rare phenomenon.

“Ball and Chain,” Hazel says with a smirk. “You coming?”

I want to scoff at Hazel for inviting a complete stranger—one who could very well be a serial killer—to come dancing with us. What if he’s married ? I quickly glance at his left hand—the hand that moments ago had tenderly wiped my face—and whew , no wedding band.

He could still be a serial killer, though.

I eye him, tracing his broad shoulders with my eyes, down his tattooed arm.

There’s a skull of a bull, some kind of flag—Texas, probably—and a whole lot of ink that screams “do not follow me into a dark alley.” So naturally, I want to.

Are there a lot of serial killers from Texas?

I really don’t know, but Hazel doesn’t give me a moment to consider because she grabs my hand and pulls me away.

Then, I do the craziest thing I’ve ever done in my quiet, boring life: I turn around and call out to Tattoo Guy, “Are you coming?”

He smiles and winks at me, the gesture setting off Pop Rocks in my stomach. “Ball and Chain?” He clarifies. I nod. “I’ll see you there.”

Twenty-five minutes later, Hazel, Hector, and I are at Ball and Chain. I may or may not be checking the door every sixty seconds to see if Tattoo Guy shows up. (Okay, it’s more like every fifteen seconds but, really , who’s counting?)

I’m overthinking the heck out of the situation—maybe I was wrong about what I perceived? Maybe he really does think I’m like a toddler with her mommy’s lipstick. I’ve analyzed every moment of my interaction with him so deeply that I’m certain I could qualify to become a forensic pathologist.

He doesn’t even know my name. What kind of guy goes out of his way to go salsa dancing with a girl whose name he doesn’t know?

I’m not even sure if that’s the kind of guy I’d want to go salsa dancing with.

I glance at the door again as a few people enter—but none of them are tattoo guy.

Maybe he found something way better the moment I left.

Guys like Tattoo Guy do not pay attention to girls like me.

At least, that’s what I used to think. Now my hope is sky-high.

I look down at my hands in my lap, feeling pathetic.

So much for being some sexy, confident alter ego—deep down, I’m still just Lyla.

Boring, mousy, pathetic Lyla. In a way, it’s relieving to know who I am—I don’t have to pretend to be something I’m not.

I take a deep breath and stand up, resolving to say bye to Hazel while she dances with Hector, and get the heck out of here.

I’m awkwardly navigating the dance floor, dodging out of the way of twirling couples, when a stampede of giant men pours in, all chains, grills, and cologne so strong I can taste it.

I roll my eyes and turn away. Must be football players, from the look of them—and I have no interest in football players.

I get enough of them in my job, and enough is enough.

But before I glance away, I catch sight of him—Tattoo Guy, right in the midst of all the football players.

A waitress scrambles from behind the bar, bringing them all a tray of shots.

They must be famous then, if they’re getting this kind of treatment.

Tattoo Guy takes a shot and then sets the empty glass on the tray. His eyes search the dance floor and immediately land on me, as if he was a heat seeking missile and I’m his target.

Caught.

I’m not a physics girl—I’m more of an English and History type—so I can’t quite make sense of this, but at the sight of him, my stomach both falls to my feet and jumps into my chest at the same time.

I pause, standing on wobbling legs, as he makes his way toward me, stalking like he’s the king of the jungle and I’m his prey.

Even with a charming grin playing on his perfect lips, this guy screams danger .

The tingling that’s rippling all over my skin must be what a gazelle feels in that moment when they sense a predator—ears pricked, ready to run.

Except there’s nowhere for me to run.

He steps in front of me, towering like a shadow, and extends a hand. “You save a dance for me?”

I stare up at him, helpless. “I don’t even know your name,” I say. I have to stand on tiptoes to make myself heard over the music.

“It’s Drake,” he says. “Drake Blythe.”

“I’ve been calling you Tattoo Guy in my head.”

He laughs and then leans in further to say, “I’ve been calling you Red.”

I stifle a gasp and cover my lips with my fingers.

They’re still red, and probably will be for the rest of my life with how strong Hazel’s lipstick is.

He gently tugs my hand away from my mouth.

“Don’t cover up your best asset,” he says with a mischievous grin.

Then, he takes a step back and gives me a slow once-over.

“Actually, scratch that. You’re stacked with assets. ”

A smarter, more confident girl would scoff or roll her eyes—because this is definitely a line .

But I am neither of those things, so I gawk up at him, certain that my cheeks are redder than a clown’s.

“So, Red, are we dancing or what?” He holds his hand out again. I study it for a moment before nodding.

If I’m a gazelle, instead of running with the rest of the herd, I just laid down and exposed my hide for the kill.

I slide my hand into his massive one and let him pull me close.

The salsa music thrums through the air, seeping into my bones as we move in time with the beat.

When his hand glides over my waist, I falter, stepping on his foot. “Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry,” I sputter.

But my apology is met with laughter. “I get tackled for a living by guys like this,” he gestures toward one of the huge guys he walked in with who’s dancing nearby, “your tiny self stepping on my foot is like getting tickled.” He spins me out and then back again, pressing me against his chest. “Step on me all you want, Red.”

And then I lose myself. Lyla Smith—mousy, boring, administrative assistant—is long gone.

In her place is Layla, the confident(ish), sexy woman who dances with strangers who happen to be professional football players who give her nicknames like ‘Red.’ I lose myself to the moment, to the music, and to this man who seems to be enthralled by me.

It’s like our bodies are speaking a language only we understand.

Is it chemistry? Magic? The buzz from the drink I can smell on Drake’s breath?

Whatever it is, it’s skittering through me, pulsing through my veins and sparking between us in a way I’ve never personally experienced.

Who knows, this could happen to this Drake Blythe guy every week, but this chemistry thing is new for me.

Probably because it’s not safe—it’s uncaged, wild, and so, so scary.

And I don’t do any of those things.

There’s a few moments when I think this Drake guy might kiss me.

As the sultry notes of “Si Tú Me Besas” envelop the room, he pulls me into a close embrace.

Our bodies sway in unison, our feet moving side to side in harmony.

His hand rests firmly on my back, guiding me through slow turns that leave me breathless.

When he leads me back to him, he tilts his head down so that his forehead grazes mine, his breath fanning onto my skin.

It’s tantalizing—I’m not a big drinker, but I could get drunk on this guy’s attention.

We dance for several minutes—or an eternity, I’m not totally sure. But when Hazel practically crashes into me, telling me we need to leave, it’s as if she’s startled me out of a dream. She’s got my clutch from our table, along with her things. “I gotta go,” I tell Drake, letting Hazel pull me away.

“Wait,” he tugs me back to him. “Can I get your name? Your number?”

“Where’s your phone?” I ask over the music.

“I left it in the car,” he says.

Against my better judgment, I take his hand and drag him up to the bar. I write my number onto a cocktail napkin and hand it to him. I don’t tell him my name. If he really wants to find out, he’ll call me.

I give him one final glance, and I can tell we both want to say something more, fall back asleep into the dream for a few more minutes, but I turn on my heel and cut a line through the crowd to follow Hazel out.

And I never hear from him again.