they could’ve easily just used their own utensils and eaten off each other’s plates. They didn’t have to feed one another.
She rubbed her bare arms, suddenly embarrassed at the shared intimacy.
Jensen’s eyes focused again on her skimpy top just as a fiddle player started warming up in the main dining room.
“Looks like the band is getting ready.” She felt a little silly for pointing out the obvious.
“Do you dance much?” he asked.
“I can hold my own. What about you?” She hoped he’d invite her to two-step.
“Yes, but not to this. Frankly, this may come as a surprise to you, but they don’t teach us country-and-western line dancing in cotillion class.”
“Really? And yet the waltz is so terribly popular in my neck of the woods.” She smiled, just as the band launched into full swing.
“Shall we have a dance-off then, Miss Rogers?” he asked as he scraped his chair back and offered his hand.
“I’d love to.” She pushed aside the Jose Cuervo she hadn’t touched and rose to join him. “But I should warn you.” She leaned toward him, her mouth aimed toward his ear as he guided her to the dance floor. “One day soon I aim to do a mean cancan.”
She caught herself the moment the words rolled out of her mouth, especially since she was merely entertaining the idea, especially after drinking a margarita.
“The cancan? My goodness, Miss Rogers. You’re full of surprises. I’d love to see that sometime—especially if you’re in costume.”
Gram planned to work on her fancy outfit, and if Amber gave her the go-ahead, that was something Jensen would never see. So she laughed off her slip of the tongue.
As she stood, Jensen said, “Don’t forget your coat.”
“Are you crazy? It’s too hot to think about wearing something like that on the dance floor.” She did, however, take her purse, which was a tiny little bag barely able to hold her keys, her ID, a credit card and some cash.
Jensen seemed to study her momentarily, and she patted the purse that hung at her side by a narrow shoulder strap. “I travel light when I plan to spend some time on a dance floor.”
He seemed to ponder that a moment, then spun her into his arms. A beat later, they joined the others two-stepping across the parquet floor.
Jensen did much better than she’d expected, and they were soon laughing and twirling their way around to various renditions of classic George Strait and Alan Jackson songs.
After the first set, the band paused for a break. She’d worked up a thirst. Jensen asked if she wanted to order another margarita, but since she was driving, she told him she’d prefer a glass of ice water to cool her down.
“This has been the most enjoyable night I’ve had since my arrival in Texas,” Jensen said, then he leaned in closer. “You’re an excellent dancer, Amber. And an enjoyable companion.”
She told herself that the loud music had forced them to talk into each other’s ears the past hour, and that they leaned into each other as a matter of habit.
“Companion, huh?” she said, maintaining the intimate proximity.
He glanced at the top she wore, which helped to keep her cool in the heated quarters. But there was another kind of closeness, another heat that had her steamed up. Him, too, it seemed.
When a cowboy walked by, carrying a longneck bottle of beer, he gave her a flirtatious grin and tipped his hat. But he hadn’t really meant anything by it. She was used to being recognized.
Jensen’s smile faded. “There are too many people ogling us in here. Maybe we should go outside. Why don’t you get your jacket?”
Just who was he to be concerned about them ogling? He certainly hadn’t staked his claim, and even if he had, she wasn’t about to let anyone tell her what she could and couldn’t wear out in public. The blouse wasn’t all that skimpy!
And while she wouldn’t mind going outside anyway, she fought the urge to go for her jacket. Her rebellious streak wouldn’t allow it, especially since Jensen was doing that judgmental upper-crust thing again, like he’d done that first day she’d met him on his sister’s porch.
That being the case, he’d need to learn that she wasn’t going to be intimated by him or his snobby attitude. “Apparently you don’t like my top.”
“It’s fine.”
The female singer stepped onto stage just as the chords for a Patsy Cline song sounded over the speakers. Couples made their way back onto the dance floor, but Jensen stood facing her—and looking down his aristocratic nose.
“If you were Pinocchio, your nose would stretch out a foot right now. And birds would be swooping down to build a nest on it.”
“There’s not a bloody thing wrong with your blouse,” he said. “Which is why every man in this place has been staring at you.”
She looked around. The cowboy was long gone by now, and she didn’t see anyone else staring at her, other than a man in a John Deere hat near the bar. But that guy was probably watching the scene they were causing rather than the way her shirt rose above her waistline.
She uncrossed her arms, tucked her thumbs in her front pockets and shifted her weight to one hip. “Nobody is staring at me, Jensen. And so what if they were?”
“You know what? You’re right. So what if they are? They can stare all they like because you’re here with me. And the sooner all the other single guys find that out, the better.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her onto the dance floor, holding her close as the singer belted out lines about being crazy for loving you.
She tried not to think of what he was so all-fired worked up about. Was it really her?
Truth be told, she fancied being locked in his embrace all night long. And if, down the road, things blew up in their faces, it would serve the both of them right for playing with fire. They were a mismatched pair—and nothing could ever come of it.
So why did she even harbor the slightest little dream that things could be different? But clearly, they weren’t.
Before she could wonder about Jensen’s intentions, the man in the John Deere hat held up his smartphone, the flash of the camera going off.
Jensen took Amber’s hand and led her off the dance floor, through the throng of people who’d gathered around to watch the cowboys and their dates slow dancing to the sounds of “Crazy,” and out of Smokey Joe’s.
As they moved, Amber scanned their surroundings. “The guy who took the photo isn’t following us. And he wasn’t one of the reporters who was at Quinn’s ranch the other day.”
“If
