Free Lead and Follow by Katie Porter Page B

Paul caught her with a hand low on her back. With boots, jeans and cowboy hat, he was a Texan wet dream—and an absolute relief after the last twelve confusing hours she’d spent rewriting rules with Dima. He was also another way to keep her frustrating partner’s attention. If she had to grasp at straws, she’d do it with Paul.
    “Hey, you,” she said.
    “I’m only here to get my paycheck.” He kissed her full on the mouth. Oh, she liked that. Up front and still interested and apparently oblivious to whatever Dima thought. His straightforward attitude was such a relief. “Didn’t realize I’d earned a bonus so soon.”
    “I’m sure you do great work behind the bar.” She turned in Paul’s arms and threw her partner a sultry look. “You remember Dima, of course.”
    Wow.
    She’d seen lightning storms with less crackle. Maybe some of it was competition, but she didn’t get the same sullen hands off vibe Dima threw around when she’d danced with Remy. This was deeper. Like marrow and sinew and the salty taste of skin. Paul and Dima sized each other up with a mixture of heat and cool reserve, as if waiting for a move, a sign, a word.
    It made her inexplicably proud that Dima took the lead. Relieved, even. Maybe she wouldn’t have to attempt impossible mind-reading when it came to his attitude toward Paul.
    He extended his hand. “Dmitri Turgenev.”
    “Paul Reeves.”
    They shook hands, both solid grips revealed in the hard bunch of forearm tendons. Lizzie shivered. Heat that had barely subsided burst through her body like a volcano blowing its top.
    Depraved. So wrong .
    She wanted them both.
    Her connection with Dima was deeper and more complicated, which was probably why flirting with Paul was so much fun. A beautiful, sunny counterpoint to all her confusion. Could having two men actually help her understand one better? Damn, that was screwed up.
    “Paul,” she said. “Do you have plans for dinner?”
    “Not that I know of. You offering?”
    She locked gazes with Dima. Her ripped-open feeling was reflected in eyes the color of hot cocoa. About their job, they’d been communicating without words for more than a decade. Disguising a busted lift. Recovering a missed step. Silently slagging off a harsh judge. This had nothing to do with dancing and everything to do with the weird place their relationship had slipped into.
    “ Podelishsja? ”
    “ Zavisit ot nego .”
    Christ, they weren’t having this discussion. Couldn’t be.
    Are you going to share?
    It depends on him.
    She slipped her fingertips in the waistband of Paul’s jeans. “Our Dima thinks it’s cute to speak so that no one else understands. I think it’s rude. However, he has grown into a really good cook.”
    “A miracle,” Dima said with a shrug. “Russian cuisine is mostly potatoes, sausage and homebrew vodka.”
    “Not exactly best for a dancer,” she added.
    As if testing the waters, Paul nuzzled her temple but spoke directly to Dima. “I happen to like vodka.”
    Lizzie traced his jaw with her forefinger. Stubble. Just like Dima the night before. She was going to fucking explode, imagining and anticipating. To go through with it might not be possible. Damn if she wasn’t going to try. “So, you game? I’m sure he’ll make us something fantastic.”
    Paul let loose a slow, wide grin. “I’m sure he will.”
    “Eight o’clock?” She gave him the address, followed by a lingering kiss. He was a hellacious kisser. Didn’t rush, even when that was exactly what she wanted. The result was a stronger high.
    “Eight o’clock,” he echoed. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m off to brave the mountain of paper in Mr. Shaw’s office. He keeps insisting there’s a system.”
    He let go of Lizzie and tipped his cowboy hat. Still, he didn’t hurry away. Tall and lanky, he passed within inches of Dima. Again, that crackle and spark. Lizzie held her breath, willing them to touch. To combust right in front of her. Paul only