Getting Hotter
Page 2

Sighing, she walked over to the small fridge across the room. She grabbed a bottle of water, uncapped it, and chugged half as she headed for the ratty plaid couch that had seen better days.
Seth lingered near the door, watching her with disapproval. “Dinner is a bottle of water?”
“Dinner was fish sticks and French fries three hours ago. I won’t be hungry for a couple more hours.” She stretched out her legs and stared up at the cracked plaster ceiling, letting out an aggravated breath. “Why do you keep coming by, Seth? You don’t need to check up on me every frickin’ night.”
“I’m not here to check up on you.”
“Oh really? So Missy called off her guard dog?”
“Nope. Mom’s still insisting I keep an eye on you.”
She held back a groan. She loved her former boss to death, but Missy Masterson, God bless her soul, had no idea what she’d unleashed when she’d asked her son to keep tabs on Miranda.
At first, she’d appreciated the gesture—the move from Vegas to California had been jarring, and it was always difficult to adapt to a new city, especially when you didn’t know a single person there. But now that she was more settled, she no longer needed Seth Masterson to hold her hand.
In fact, that was the last thing she wanted. Because another discovery she’d made about the man? When he touched her, she turned into a pile of hot, gooey mush.
“Well, tell Missy that while I appreciate everything she’s done, I’m doing just fine.”
Miranda took another sip of water, then set the bottle on the table by the couch and bent down to unlace her black sneakers. The club owner might demand the female staff display whatever T&A they could, but he didn’t begrudge them comfortable footwear. Still, she’d only been tending bar for three hours and already her feet were killing her.
As she kicked off her shoes and began to massage her right foot, she saw Seth’s gray eyes following the movements of her hands. His expression took on that smoldering gleam, and then he left his perch by the door and approached the couch. His strides were long, predatory.
“Not doing as fine as you claim, huh?” he taunted.
She rolled her eyes. “My feet hurt. My life, on the other hand, is just fine.”
The couch cushions bounced as he flopped down beside her. Instantly, the familiar scent of him wafted in her direction. Aftershave, a hint of pine and the faint traces of smoke. Of course he was a smoker. A bad boy had to have his vices, after all.
She dug her thumbs into the arch of her foot, knowing the ache in her feet didn’t bode well for the rest of the night. She had four hours left in her shift. Four hours of running up and down that bar catering to the Friday-night crowds. And tomorrow she’d be in the dance studio from morning until late afternoon. Her poor feet were definitely going to revolt if she kept this up.
“What’s wrong?”
Seth’s voice interrupted her thoughts. She glanced over, frowning. “Nothing’s wrong.”
“You just groaned. A weary, life-sucks-ass type of groan.”
She blinked. “I did?” When he nodded in confirmation, she let out a sigh. “I was just thinking how I have to be at the studio at ten in the morning tomorrow and how much my feet are going to hate me for it. Tending bar all night and then standing en pointe all day is no piece of cake.”
“No, I imagine it isn’t.”
He sounded genuine, not a hint of condescension in his voice, and Miranda’s eyebrows rose. “Really? You’re not going to roll your eyes and tell me I know nothing about real pain? You know, ’cause I’m not a badass SEAL like you?”
“Trust me, babe, I’ve got nothing but the utmost admiration for dancers. Once when I was a kid, I sat there watching my mom soak her feet after three back-to-back performances.” Seth blanched. “To this day I’m confident in saying that what her feet looked like that night is comparable to any battle wound I’ve come across.”
Miranda burst out laughing. She didn’t doubt it. People often had an idealistic view of dancers as beautiful, magical creatures, but one look at a dancer’s feet and that bubble of perfection was liable to burst. Calluses, blisters, cracked toenails, red, flaking skin…hardly beautiful or magical.
For a moment it surprised her that Seth knew what actually lay behind the curtain, until she remembered that he’d pretty much grown up backstage at the iconic Paradis Theater on the Vegas Strip. His mother had been the star of the show for twenty years before retiring, and now worked as the head choreographer. Missy also happened to be Miranda’s mentor and staunchest supporter; for a girl who’d grown up without a mom, Miranda had been utterly grateful to have someone like Missy in her life. After Miranda’s grandmother died and left her that small inheritance, Missy was the one who encouraged her to buy the dance school in San Diego, and it was the best decision she’d ever made.
“I should get back to work.” She leaned forward to slip into her sneakers, only to jump when she felt Seth’s hand on her arm.
Her breath caught. She found herself going still. It had been so very easy to shrug out of that young guy’s grip in the hall, but here, with Seth, she couldn’t bring herself to push him away.
“How long are we going to fight it, Miranda?” His voice was rough, his expression darkening with what she could only describe as sinful challenge.
She gulped. Ignored the flashes of heat rippling over her flesh. “Fight what?” she asked, feigning ignorance.