As the kitschy music flowed around them and all of Kendall’s and Evan’s friends and relatives flapped their arms, Tuesday turned to Diesel. She was well aware that she was getting drunk quickly because she felt flushed, her vision a little too sharp, and she was having a hard time controlling what came out of her mouth. Which would explain why she said, “God, I just want to run my fingers through your hair.”
His eyes widened, but he just lifted one corner of his mouth. “Go for it.”
But she knew that was a bad idea. “No, no, we have to do the chicken dance before the music ends.” Jumping in, she started clapping and flapping along with all the other guests.
Diesel just stood there, his arms loosely at his sides, his blue tie a perfect match for the color of his mysterious eyes. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, if he was having fun, or if he just wanted her to go away and leave him the hell alone.
“All you have to do is clap,” she told him, yelling over the music.
“I’m good.”
“You look like a tree trunk.” A very, very cute tree trunk. Tuesday needed to stop staring at him. His cuteness was starting to hurt. It was just painful how freaking adorable he was, from that shaggy hair to that scruffy beard to that steady expression he always wore. Plus he was always free with a shoulder for her to cry on.
Cute. Hot.
She glanced down at his crotch.
Hung.
Oh, my. He had an erection.
As the music swung into the sashay section, she tried to hook her arm in his but Diesel shook his head. “It ain’t going to happen.”
She would assume that was because of his knee, not because he was morally opposed to dancing like some minister in an ’80s movie, so she just sashayed around him solo. It felt a little like she was doing a maypole dance, but she was drunk and having fun, so she was going to roll with it. Diesel seemed amused by it himself, because he was struggling to contain a smile when she rounded his front side and glanced up at him.
“You gotta go the other way now,” he told her, pointing back the way she came.
“Oh, right. That is how the dance goes.” She reversed, her heel giving her a little bit of trouble on the turn. She almost lost her footing but Diesel grabbed her arm and steadied her.
Huh. That felt kinda nice. Having someone catch her when she was going to fall. Tuesday banished that thought as quickly as it came. She was independent. A grown woman. A sports reporter and famed stock car blogger. She didn’t need someone to catch her. She wasn’t falling. Ever.
All she was doing was noticing that Diesel had quite an amazing butt in those dress pants. He wasn’t wearing a jacket, which afforded her a fabulous view. She couldn’t help it. Trailing her fingers across his back as she modified the sashay significantly, she let her hand wander a little lower than was strictly appropriate.
“I don’t think that’s in the dance,” he told her when she rounded the front.
“No? Then I just changed it.” She moved in closer to him, her hands on his chest. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to grind her body against his and forget about everything and everyone except for him and her and the pleasure she was sure they could create together.
But before she could do anything, he took a step back. “The dance is over.”
Tuesday blinked. He was right, everyone was abandoning the floor as the DJ switched over from the fast paced chicken dance to some melancholic slow song.
But why did that mean he couldn’t kiss her? He had to have seen the look she was giving him, had to have picked up on her cues. Or maybe he just didn’t want to kiss her.
Well. That was a sobering thought.
“Are you hungry? They put out some finger food. Maybe you should eat something.”
So he thought she was drunk. Well, she was drunk, what of it? That didn’t mean she didn’t know what she was doing.
“I don’t need to eat. I need to dance. And if you’re not going to dance with me, I’ll find someone who will.” A distant relative of Evan’s had been hitting on her earlier, and she saw he was eyeing her from the edge of the dance floor. “I’ll see you later, Diesel.”
She would not be stupidly hurt for no apparent reason. She would not be offended by Diesel’s lack of sexual interest in her. She would not cry—again—at this wedding.
She would dance and flirt with a man she didn’t find remotely attractive for an ego boost and a distraction.
See how mature and not drunk she was?
Take that, Diesel Lange.
DIESEL watched Tuesday stomp off, a little unsteady on her feet. He clenched his hands at his sides involuntarily when she strode straight up to some douche bag wearing his necktie like a belt. He tried not to grit his teeth when Tuesday started dancing with him and the guy used that necktie to wrap around her waist and draw her closer to him.
He should have slow danced with her. He could have managed that. Maybe.
He should have kissed her. He could have handled that without taking it to far on the dance floor. Possibly.
At the very least, he should not have suggested she eat some finger food. How lame was that? He’d been thinking it would help slow down her speeding train to trashed town, but all it had done was piss her off. Rightly so. Offering finger food was stupid and grandmotherly. He didn’t want to seem like an ancient relative.
So the question was what did he do now? Did he stand there like a loser watching her grind—yes, grind—with some pretty boy, or did he do something about it? He could walk away and abandon the whole idea of Tuesday, which really, what exactly was his idea? Hell if he knew. Or he could save her from what was clearly a bad choice.
Then again, how did he know what was a good choice or a bad choice for Tuesday? Maybe this dude was someone she would really dig, and they’d get married or something and if he interrupted, he’d destroy her future.
God, his head hurt, and he felt like the longer he stood there, the more his testosterone was draining away. Another five minutes and he’d have to turn in his man card.
The point was, did he want Tuesday or not?
His dick hardened in his dress pants.
That was a yes.
The follow-up question was could he do anything about it tonight?
No. Not when she was as loaded as she was.
But he could certainly protect her from making a drunken mistake she’d probably regret.
Because from the looks of that guy, he had one thing and one thing only in mind. And while Tuesday was laughing as she danced with him, she also kept repeatedly moving his hand off her ass.