He leaned in quick and kissed her before stepping back and leading her to the table where the men had joined them. It was just a peck, she told herself, but she didn’t stop smiling because she was happy either way.
“You’re an amazing dancer,” he said to her as she slid into the booth.
“Pshaw. Thank you. You too.” Thank goodness it was dark and hot in there, or she’d be horrified by her blush.
“What other talents are you hiding?” He got very close as he spoke, his breath on her neck. He’d turned on the flirt again, made her drunk with it.
She laughed somewhat shakily. “I’m really not that interesting, I swear.”
“On the contrary, Ella, I find you fascinating. You want another drink?”
On impulse and because he flustered her, she blurted out, “Tell me one thing about yourself no one knows.”
He paused, clearly surprised by her question, and then shrugged. “Only if you do the same.”
“All right.”
“I love poetry.” He said it while his gaze danced away for a moment. Was he embarrassed? Did he not know that it made him even sexier?
“Like what?”
“It’s getting loud in here. Come with me into the bar. We’ll get drinks, and my ears won’t bleed.”
She shrugged and let him pull her from the booth. Once standing, she turned back to the table, leaning over Adrian to speak to Elise. “You want a refill?”
Cope wanted to punch Adrian in the face for the way he looked at Ella’s boobs. Yes, they were right there in his line of vision, and goddamn if they weren’t mouthwateringly gorgeous, but they weren’t Adrian’s to gaze at.
He stepped over just a bit until Adrian looked up and discovered he’d been caught. Cope flipped him off, and Adrian waggled his brows before going back to look. Annoyed, Cope hooked a finger through one of her belt loops and tugged. She turned with a grin and let him pull her to him.
“Ready?”
She nodded, and he sheltered her against his body and pushed through the crowd, keeping people from crowding her too much. Just to be safe, he kept an arm around her waist, liking how she felt.
The volume level dropped back down to only partially insane once they reached the back bar. One arm to either side of her, he bracketed her with his body as she moved forward. It shielded her from the crush of the crowd and kept her against him.
She rattled off drinks to the bartender, who nodded, looked down at her tits and grinned as he went to work.
“Pablo Neruda,” he said softly in her ear, partly to answer her earlier question and partly to snag her attention again.
She froze a moment, not knowing what he meant, until she remembered the poetry conversation.
Leaning her head back, she caught his gaze. “Really? I admit I don’t know all of his stuff. I had a world lit course a million years ago.”
“I’ll have to remedy that. Now it’s your turn.”
“I told you, I’m not that interesting. But I do enjoy poetry too. What little I know if it.”
“Really?” He tossed money on the counter before she could pay. She frowned and, without thinking, he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “You’re far more beautiful without the frown. It’s my round anyway.”
Her expression was a cross between consternation, anger and appreciation. There was a story there, he could tell. Question was, should he pursue it now, or wait?
“I like to pay my own way.”
“Next round you can.”
She lost some of the tension in her face and nodded. “Thank you.”
He grabbed the beers, and she got Erin’s water. Again he sort of shielded her with his body as he muscled through the crowd. It was . . . delicious to feel protected by a man as big as Cope was. He was so much, just took up so much space. He seemed more serious with her of late, and it drove her mad. Sometimes she allowed herself the opportunity to obsess over whether he was actually showing romantic interest in her, especially after the things Elise and Erin had said earlier. Mainly she just told herself he was flirting like he did with everyone else. Nothing more.
When they got back, he followed her into the booth, his body pressed against hers until she felt faint with his nearness. God, what a fabulous night this was!
“Which poets do you like?”
“Mary Oliver. ‘Wild Geese’ is a poem that breaks my heart each time I read it. It’s so beautiful, achingly so. Marge Piercy, love her fiction too. Edith Wharton.” She hadn’t had much time to explore things like poetry, but Mick would e-mail her poems, song lyrics, he’d write her letters with photographs and dried flowers tucked between the pages. She smiled, thinking about how her brother had always known when she needed those little check-ins from him the most.
Cope slid a fingertip down the tender skin of the inside of her forearm, snagging her attention. “I like that smile. What are you thinking about?”
“My brother Mick. He’s the one who introduced me to Mary Oliver. He’s one of those people you love getting letters from.”
Cope’s smile warmed her in a way not at all connected to sex. It was understanding, open and interested in what she was saying.
In order to be heard over the music and dull roar of people shouting to speak to each other, he had to lean in close, his breath against her neck and ear. “Oh, like with ticket stubs and funny newspaper articles tucked inside? Sometimes just a photograph of a beach or a tree?”
“You’re an amazing dancer,” he said to her as she slid into the booth.
“Pshaw. Thank you. You too.” Thank goodness it was dark and hot in there, or she’d be horrified by her blush.
“What other talents are you hiding?” He got very close as he spoke, his breath on her neck. He’d turned on the flirt again, made her drunk with it.
She laughed somewhat shakily. “I’m really not that interesting, I swear.”
“On the contrary, Ella, I find you fascinating. You want another drink?”
On impulse and because he flustered her, she blurted out, “Tell me one thing about yourself no one knows.”
He paused, clearly surprised by her question, and then shrugged. “Only if you do the same.”
“All right.”
“I love poetry.” He said it while his gaze danced away for a moment. Was he embarrassed? Did he not know that it made him even sexier?
“Like what?”
“It’s getting loud in here. Come with me into the bar. We’ll get drinks, and my ears won’t bleed.”
She shrugged and let him pull her from the booth. Once standing, she turned back to the table, leaning over Adrian to speak to Elise. “You want a refill?”
Cope wanted to punch Adrian in the face for the way he looked at Ella’s boobs. Yes, they were right there in his line of vision, and goddamn if they weren’t mouthwateringly gorgeous, but they weren’t Adrian’s to gaze at.
He stepped over just a bit until Adrian looked up and discovered he’d been caught. Cope flipped him off, and Adrian waggled his brows before going back to look. Annoyed, Cope hooked a finger through one of her belt loops and tugged. She turned with a grin and let him pull her to him.
“Ready?”
She nodded, and he sheltered her against his body and pushed through the crowd, keeping people from crowding her too much. Just to be safe, he kept an arm around her waist, liking how she felt.
The volume level dropped back down to only partially insane once they reached the back bar. One arm to either side of her, he bracketed her with his body as she moved forward. It shielded her from the crush of the crowd and kept her against him.
She rattled off drinks to the bartender, who nodded, looked down at her tits and grinned as he went to work.
“Pablo Neruda,” he said softly in her ear, partly to answer her earlier question and partly to snag her attention again.
She froze a moment, not knowing what he meant, until she remembered the poetry conversation.
Leaning her head back, she caught his gaze. “Really? I admit I don’t know all of his stuff. I had a world lit course a million years ago.”
“I’ll have to remedy that. Now it’s your turn.”
“I told you, I’m not that interesting. But I do enjoy poetry too. What little I know if it.”
“Really?” He tossed money on the counter before she could pay. She frowned and, without thinking, he brushed his thumb over her bottom lip. “You’re far more beautiful without the frown. It’s my round anyway.”
Her expression was a cross between consternation, anger and appreciation. There was a story there, he could tell. Question was, should he pursue it now, or wait?
“I like to pay my own way.”
“Next round you can.”
She lost some of the tension in her face and nodded. “Thank you.”
He grabbed the beers, and she got Erin’s water. Again he sort of shielded her with his body as he muscled through the crowd. It was . . . delicious to feel protected by a man as big as Cope was. He was so much, just took up so much space. He seemed more serious with her of late, and it drove her mad. Sometimes she allowed herself the opportunity to obsess over whether he was actually showing romantic interest in her, especially after the things Elise and Erin had said earlier. Mainly she just told herself he was flirting like he did with everyone else. Nothing more.
When they got back, he followed her into the booth, his body pressed against hers until she felt faint with his nearness. God, what a fabulous night this was!
“Which poets do you like?”
“Mary Oliver. ‘Wild Geese’ is a poem that breaks my heart each time I read it. It’s so beautiful, achingly so. Marge Piercy, love her fiction too. Edith Wharton.” She hadn’t had much time to explore things like poetry, but Mick would e-mail her poems, song lyrics, he’d write her letters with photographs and dried flowers tucked between the pages. She smiled, thinking about how her brother had always known when she needed those little check-ins from him the most.
Cope slid a fingertip down the tender skin of the inside of her forearm, snagging her attention. “I like that smile. What are you thinking about?”
“My brother Mick. He’s the one who introduced me to Mary Oliver. He’s one of those people you love getting letters from.”
Cope’s smile warmed her in a way not at all connected to sex. It was understanding, open and interested in what she was saying.
In order to be heard over the music and dull roar of people shouting to speak to each other, he had to lean in close, his breath against her neck and ear. “Oh, like with ticket stubs and funny newspaper articles tucked inside? Sometimes just a photograph of a beach or a tree?”
