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wishing she was a brunette. And that her negligee was a crappy old tank-top like the one his Gracie wore late at night when they sat on her porch drinking cheap beer or in the morning when she came out to get the paper. And that the woman next to him would wake the hell up and go home. Since then, sex had been on an as-needed basis and he hadn’t invited another woman to stay over, not that Grace had noticed. She still made the same old playboy jokes that he’d more than earned to that point. Now was his chance to start with a clean slate.
    They stepped onto the portable dance floor that took up one corner of the room, and she looked up at him. The hat that had sat on top of her curls had worked its way forward and pushed a fat ringlet over one eye. God, she was lethal. So sexy and not a clue. He noted several guys glancing their way, sizing him up. He waited until her head was turned to give them the stare down. He had one shot at this, and he wasn’t about to let anyone screw it up for him.
    The mid-tempo song that played faded out, and he said a silent prayer for a little help from the gods of bump and grind for a slow one.
    “This one goes out to all the ladies,” the DJ crooned. “With love, from your host, Chaz.”
    Their host, Chaz, was a total dickwad, but Trick could’ve kissed him on the mouth right then as the strains of Marvin Gaye’s “Sexual Healing” poured from the speakers.
    Grace tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and let out a weak chuckle. “Well this just got sorta weird.”
    Weird was one way to put it. He would’ve said fucking awesome. He held out his arms and hoped he looked harmless. No easy task when he wanted nothing more than to flip her around and bury himself into her sweet heat from the back until she screamed his name.
    He closed his eyes and forced the images out of his head. “I think it’s a great song. Don’t quit on me now.”
    “Okay, Catman.” She nodded and took a deep breath. “Let’s do this.”
    …
    Coming home. That’s what it felt like. The tingles were firing like Donald Trump on double-elimination day, like pistols at a redneck family reunion, like hippies at a ceramics convention, as his arms wrapped around her, one hand cupping her hip, the other resting lightly on her waist. He smelled like pumpkin beer and vanilla soap, and she leaned in closer, circling his neck with her arms. Luckily, the boots she wore gave her a couple inches, or she wouldn’t have been able to reach. He was almost as tall as Tr—
    “Your hair smells nice. What is that?”
    “Gardenias. It’s my, uh, shampoo. I—I got it at Bath and Body Works.” Because that part was important to note? He tilted his head closer, and she thought she felt his chest rumble against hers. Was he laughing or purring? She swallowed hard, choking back the nerves that had resurfaced the second he spoke.
    Don’t sell yourself short, Grace. He picked you out of this room full of beautiful women.
    Besides, when was the last time she’d felt like this around a man? Probably never. Sure there were the weird misfires around Trick, and Victor had inspired some sort of visceral reaction the day she’d met him—although in hindsight she wondered if, in her desire to find a boyfriend at the time, she’d mistaken agita from a Chalupa earlier that night for tingles. Either way, this was major progress. Maybe tonight, with this nameless hottie, she could get the confidence she’d let her ex rob her of. It didn’t matter if her mystery man was a forever kind of guy. This was about finding someone who made her pulse skip and wasn’t her best friend. That was enough for now. She was only twenty-seven, for God’s sake. Surely that was still young enough to do something impulsive and fun?
    And if he called tomorrow, all the better…
    As Marvin begged his lady to “wake up, wake up, wake up”, she tucked in closer. Close enough that her breasts pressed lightly into his muscular abdomen. Oh, that was nice.