Page 37 of The Romance Line
“Do you have a thing for talking during a show?”
“Yes,” I say, because she smells too fucking good. I can’t focus on anything but her. With barely any space on these bleachers, I’m entirely too close to her on this too-small bench with too-little room, while I’m stuck inhaling her scent that’s driving me wild. I blame the perfume for what comes out of my mouth next. “Admit it—you’ve been secretly dying to take me out.”
She turns to me, shooting me ayou didn’t just say thatstare. But it’s not like she’s mad. More like she’s curious as hell. “What does that mean?”
“That maybe this was part of your plan all along,” I say, as nonchalant as I can be. “A date at the circus.”
She rolls her eyes. “Max, we’re here for a picture for your social feed. Step one, remember?”
“And yet I don’t see you taking one,” I say, busting her on a technicality, since I can’t stop giving her a hard time.
Her eyes widen, like she’s just realized that she’d forgotten our raison d’être. “I know that. I have a plan,” she says, defensively.
“Sure you do,” I tease.
“I do,” she insists quietly, but she’s already busy snagging her phone from her purse in a rush, like she wants to prove a point. She lifts it and snaps a quick shot of me. Then, the juggler. But she seems…shaky.
I smirk. Yup. She was having fun, despite herself. She was having such a good time she forgot her mission. Because I, Max Lambert, might be an unapproachable jerk but I’m also a damn good time. I inch closer once more, this time setting a hand on her shoulder. Herbreath hitches, but she tries to hide it with a quick inhale.
“I won’t tell a soul you’re loving this,” I say, low and smoky in her ear.
She rolls her lips together, like she’s holding in words she wants to fling at me, words dipped in her brand of sexy sarcasm. Words meant to dress me down, that I can’t seem to resist eliciting from her.
“It’ll be our secret,” I press on, even lower, even raspier.
She’s stoic, her gaze focused on the act on stage doing…I don’t even know what. I don’t even care. I can’t stop teasing her. “It’ll be just between us,” I add.
Briefly, she closes her eyes. My attention snags on her bare forearms. Oh.Oh.Goosebumps are rising on her pale skin, a tell-tale sign she’s aroused. My head swims with this new knowledge. My mind short-circuits. Is Everly Rosewood turned on from the things I whispered in her ear at the circus? I raise my face slowly, getting a glimpse of her neck, her throat, the exposed skin at the top of her dark blue blouse.
It’s flushed.
She opens her eyes, and I sit back, too pleased, too fucking satisfied. I cross my arms, enjoying…everything.
Acrobats soar through the air and the fire-breather commands the attention of the audience. A man in black leather throws knives at a woman dressed in a tight, sleek catsuit. As the show reaches the end, the juggler returns, this time swallowing swords.
Which makes me cringe. My throat hurts from looking at him. “How the fuck does he do that?” I whisper. No low, seductive words this time. Just shock.
“No gag reflex,” Everly says, deadpan.
Great. Just great. My mind is off and running. “For real?”
She’s quiet for a beat, those pretty lips curving in the slightest smile as she murmurs, “I hear it helps with…swallowing.”
My chest burns, flames licking my blood. She went there. She fucking went there, and now I’m a volcano as I picture Everly Rosewood’s beautiful mouth doing unholy things to my dick.
I stare at her lush lips longer than I should till her eyes widen, and she pats her own chin subtly, a sign of something.
“What?” I ask, my voice rough.
In a whisper, she says, “Your mouth. It’s hanging open.”
Busted. But I’m not even sure I mind.
When the circus ends, we make our way down the bleachers and across the sawdust on the ground. As we exit the tent, Everly nods in the opposite direction of the street where the Lyft dropped us off. “I arranged for you to meet the ringmaster.”
My eyebrows shoot up. “You did?”
“Of course. This was a PR thing. It’s for your social,” she says.