“You know—”
“I know what you’re going to say. Sasha said it, too. But consider this: I could be used as a good distraction. I—”
He reaches for me and pulls me to him. “No. Not this. You can help plan everything, and be involved in every way except putting yourself in his reach.”
“Can we at least—”
He cups my head and kisses me. “No. If that means we fight, we fight.”
My hand flattens on his chest. “I’m really not feeling like fighting with you, Hawk, but I reserve the right to change that at any minute.”
A low rumble of sexy masculine laughter escapes his lips. “Duly noted, future wife of The Hawk. We need to get you a ring.”
“You choose it. That will make it special.”
“I have something in mind.”
“Then that’s what I want.”
He gives me the tender, warm look that defies the dark, hard parts of him, and makes him even sexier and more alluring. “Blake won’t be here until this afternoon,” he says. “We have plenty of time for you to grab those slippers and use your studio upstairs. You can show me your moves.”
The suggestion is unexpected, as is the jolt it delivers. “No,” I say, that jolt turning to a squeeze in my heart. “It reminds me of my mother, and right now, I need to just deal with my father. I’ll revisit that other part of me later—but I wouldn’t mind hitting the gym.”
“I want to see you dance,” he says, his voice a gentle, stubborn prod.
“You think I’m hiding from something.”
“You haven’t resisted the idea of dancing before now, sweetheart. Something else is going on. I think you’re afraid that giving yourself permission to do something you love, just because you love it, makes you weak. It doesn’t.”
He’s hit a nerve I didn’t know existed, and it’s far closer to the truth than the answer I’d given us both a few moments before.
“When was the last time you danced?” he asks. “Really danced?”
Okay, maybe there is truth to both answers. Because my chest tightens and I look to the ceiling, fighting an unexpected wave of emotion. “A little here, when I was alone one night.”
“Before that?”
“The day my mother died,” I grudgingly admit, refocusing on him. “And I haven’t relived losing her yet. I guess there are more things my mind is hiding from me than I realized.”
He gives me a three-second intense look. “Would she approve of you turning your back on ballet?”
“She’d roll over in her grave.”
“And how long has it been since your mother died?”
“Years,” I say, a firmer answer coming to me. “Right after my college graduation.”
Those blue eyes of his fill with challenge and mischief. “In other words, you don’t remember how to dance.”
He’s goading me and I don’t want it to work, but I grab the slippers anyway. “I promise you, I can handle these slippers as well as I handle a gun any day.”
“How would I know that? You won’t show me.”
“Fine,” I say. “Let’s go.”
He smiles, and when this man really smiles, it’s devastatingly sexy. And before I know his intentions, I’m over his shoulder, his hand on my ass, and we’re moving.
I inhale his spicy, almost woodsy scent that’s so addictive. “It’s a good thing you smell so great, because that’s the only thing making me forgive you for making the blood rush to my head.”