Free Taste for Trouble by Susan Sey

the firm curve
of his backside. She was warm, all right. “I have a sewing kit in my purse,”
she said. “Can we please just go in?”
    He
shot her a sidelong glance. “You’re going to keep your hand on my ass the whole
way?”
    “That
was my plan,” she said, cheeks burning. “Unless you’d rather the press just
took pictures of your shorts?”
    “No,
no. It’s fine. I don’t mind at all. In fact—” He snugged her into his side again
and splayed a big hand over her butt crack. The vital heat of his touch soaked
through her dress and sang through her entire body, pooling in all the most
interesting bits. “I’ll return the favor. Just so you don’t look so forward.”
    “Forward!”
    “Yeah.
When the pictures hit the papers. You don’t want to look like one of those desperate
groupies copping a quick feel off some footballer who doesn’t even know her
name, do you? You’ll come off much better if this is a mutual grope.” He gave
her bottom a fond pat. “Trust me.”
    She
closed her eyes and tried to ignore the way her stomach jumped in response to
his touch. This was her job now. Exchanging mock feel-ups with her newest
colleague in front of the cameras. Fate never failed to ding the good girls, did
it?
    “Fine,”
she said. “I defer to your vastly superior experience with public displays of
bad taste. But if you pat me one more time, I’m going to pinch you. Hard.”
    He
paused, arrested. “I’m starting to think you want me to make a move.”
    She treated
him to an icy smile. “Try it and I’ll make you very sorry.”
    “Yeah?”
He lifted an eyebrow, more interested than wary. “How?”
    She
stared at him. She might as well be talking dirty to him for the look on his
face. “Just try to remember that I’m the girl who’s going to sew up your pants
in a minute, okay? Mess with me and I can make this a very uncomfortable
evening.”
    “You’d
do that?”
    “In
a heartbeat.”
    He
stared at her, then laughed. “I bet you would, too.” He started up the red
carpet at the leisurely amble he seemed to apply to all situations that didn’t
involve a soccer ball. “Only makes it worse, though, Bel. Just so you know.”
    She
rolled her eyes. “I’ll bear it in mind.”
    “I
sincerely hope you will.”
     
    Will
perused the top shelf scotch collection with an expert eye. Free alcohol was
nothing to take lightly, after all. This was a big decision. And considering
that Drew was already mooning around over one of the waitresses, he could use a
stiff drink. Add to that the fact that James and the new nanny had gone directly
from the red carpet to the bathrooms with their hands plastered all over each
other and this night was shaping up to be a real misery.
    God,
he was sick of his life.
    “I’ll
take the Glen Garioch,” he said to the bartender. “Neat.”
    “It’s
her,” Drew said, his gaze following some curvy little waitress around the room.
“I know it is.”
    Will
glanced at him, then back at the bartender. “Better make it a double.”
    The glass
arrived in his hand, heavy-bottomed and cool, two inches of gorgeous amber
liquid swirling inside it. The impulse to pound the drink back was there—always
there—but it would be a crime to gulp down scotch of this quality. An insult to
all the wizened little brewers who babied dank cellars full of oak barrels in
the wilds of Scotland to ensure that their fine, life-sustaining product could
end up here where Will needed it most.
    He
raised the glass slowly, relishing the moment. He loved that instant when the
alcohol first hit his tongue, the way it spun into his system all lazy and
reassuring. He especially loved the way it blurred the sharpest edges of his
stupid fucking life. The one where his only professional, social or emotional
obligations revolved around somebody else’s talent. The one where Will, at
thirty years of age, was still making his living off his younger brother and
building his weekends around opportunities