Free In Your Dreams (Falling #4) by Ginger Scott

overpowering like I’d assume. It’s masculine and little bit like a good cocktail. He catches me off guard—drunk on his pheromones—and manages to walk me backward into the small nook at the far end of the bar.
    “Oh…oh no you don’t,” I start, my heart beating hard as I put my palm flat on his chest, which is…hot. It’s warm, I mean. But it’s also hot. And hard. And really big and immovable. My eyebrows narrow, and I push harder as his arms fall to his sides and his thumbs find his pockets. “What are you, like a bouncer on the side? Were you always this…big?”
    I look up realizing what I said and the right side of his mouth ticks up. Jedi dimple. I roll my eyes in response.
    “Stocky,” I say, my lips pursed. “I meant stocky. And…pushy. I definitely mean pushy.”
    “Just hear me out,” he says, stepping closer to me. My eyes dart erratically from side to side. I’m willing to scream for help if I have to. He senses my panic and holds his palms up on either side of his face, a small flash drive between his right thumb and forefinger. My eyes zoom in on it. “I meant every word I said on your porch, Murphy. I can’t change what you think of me, or shit…anything I may or may not have done to earn that reputation with you. But the fact remains that you have a talent, and whether you like it or not, so do I. And mine—it complements yours. In the best possible way. You’re special, Murphy Sullivan. I can make you believe it.”
    Goddamn it; that was some speech. My eyes leave his just enough to take in the flash drive he’s now holding out for me to take. I’m skeptical. But I’m also curious, so I pull it into my fingers carefully. As Casey lets go, a heavy breath escapes him.
    “What is this? Is this…a bribe?” I say, one eye smaller than the other.
    “No, it’s proof,” he says quickly.
    I twist my lips and squeeze the drive in my palm, sliding it into the front pocket of my dress. It’s my navy blue fifties dress, and I wore my hair up in twists tonight. I wanted to feel like a pinup, I guess, but somehow now I only feel vulnerable. I think it’s the cologne’s fault.
    “Proof, huh?” I say, pressing my shoulder blades as flat to the wall as I can, trying to buy space. Casey notices and takes another small stride back, pushing his hands into the pockets of his dark blue jeans. I notice his shoes when I look down—PF Flyers, green ones. He taps his right toe out and back, and I chuckle.
    “I’ve had them since high school,” he says, his grin lopsided.
    I nod in response, but the thing is—I remember. I’ve watched those shoes take center stage every chance they got. I’ve watched them get the laugh, watched them get the girl, and watched them break her heart. I’ve also watched them walk right by without stopping. I never really cared, though I always thought they were kind of awesome shoes. They’re still awesome. And now, the toes are pointed right at my Mary Janes.
    “It’s a demo. Of you. But…in a way that will make people—the right people—take notice,” he says, tapping his toe again and bringing my eyes to his.
    “Demo,” I repeat, flipping the small square drive around in my palm, which is buried in the pocket at my side.
    “One listen. When you get home. That’s all I’m asking,” he says, using that same tone—the one that I swear to god is honest and real. If not, then I’m a fool. Please don’t let me be a fool.
    “One listen,” I say in agreement. His mouth curves the moment I nod. I’ve made him happy, which makes me feel nervous and sick.
    “You won’t regret it,” he says, kicking his foot forward just enough to nudge the tip of my shoe. It startles me and my heart skips, but I hide it from him.
    He walks over to his seat and settles in next to Houston, and I watch them talk for a few minutes while Steph finishes her set. I’m up next, and my mouth is completely dry. I feel my hand in my pocket for the small plastic device