“Why not?” She’d been giving the dance floor little covert glances all throughout dinner, and he figured most women loved to dance. “I’m not totally fu—uh, terrible. Just mostly terrible.”
She smiled. “It’s not you. It’s me.” She pushed a leg up one side of the table. “I’ll tower over you. People’ll stare.”
That was all it was? “Let them stare.” But when she shook her head again and crossed her arms over her chest, he wondered about her ugly shoes. The night she’d gotten out of the cab with her friends, she’d been wearing a pair of classy high heels. Tonight, with him, she was wearing ugly black flats. “Is this why you’re wearing those shoes? So you aren’t quite so tall?”
She licked her lips and said nothing.
“So you’re tall! So fucking what?”
Her eyes widened.
He mentally cursed himself for slipping a four-letter word in there. “What I meant to say was that it’s not a big deal.”
“I’m taller than most men.”
“I’m smarter than most men. You think that’s bringing me down?”
She just gave him a look.
“You’re an amazon,” he agreed. “There’s no hiding that.”
The look on her face grew hurt, and he had a vague feeling like he’d kicked a puppy.
“Let me tell you something,” he said, leaning in. “If they have a problem with you being taller than your date, that’s their issue, not yours. Your legs are gorgeous and they look amazing in heels, and I’m a selfish enough guy to insist that you wear something that makes you look great. And if you’re taller than me, so what? I’m secure enough in my masculinity to not give a . . . a . . .” Hell, he couldn’t think of something that wasn’t vulgar. Give a fuck? Give a shit? Give a rat’s ass?
“Darn?” she supplied.
“Yes. Darn. I don’t give a darn.” His mouth curved. “Now will you please come dance?” It wasn’t like he was fucking dying to dance. Hell, he was a dude. He hated dancing. But the opportunity to press Marjorie against him and see those long legs moving in that short skirt? He was totally on board for that.
“Well, all righty then,” she said happily. “Lessdance.” She got to her feet and nearly knocked the table over as she stood, and Rob reached out to help her.
“You okay?”
“I’m great,” she enthused, her face flushed.
He wasn’t so sure about that, but they headed to the dance floor, Rob’s arm anchoring around Marjorie’s waist. In flats, she was pretty much the same height as him, and he liked that. The music changed to a slow, sultry song, and Marjorie’s arms went around his neck, her loose breasts pressing against his chest. And Rob forgot all about not staring, because her tits were small and sweet and pushed up against him and how could he not look down?
“Are you having fun?” he murmured as they began to sway to the music.
“A lot of fun,” she said in that slurred, breathless voice. Her gaze fixed on his mouth and she leaned in. “Can we kiss?”
As much as he wanted to, he shook his head. “You’re pretty drunk, Marjorie.”
She shook her head violently. “Am not!” And her knees sagged. “Whoa, I think the floor moved.”
He groaned and hauled her against him. “Stand up, Marjorie. You’re drunk.”
She giggled and clung to him, staggering. “It’s breezy in here!”
People were staring at them, and Rob checked her dress. Covered up top, but the bottom had slid up. Fucking perfect. He tugged it back down for her and then looked for the closest chair to deposit her in, since she was no longer even trying to stand up straight. The bar was only a few feet away, so he hauled her there and planted her on a stool. “Stay here,” he told her. “I’ll go get your purse.”
Marjorie giggled and made a big show of pointing at the bar. “Right here.” It made her top slide down one arm, her breast nearly falling out.
He adjusted her clothing, trying not to feel exasperated. This night was turning into a fucking disaster. “Just stay here, okay? I’ll be two minutes.” He hustled back across the restaurant, looking for their table. To his dismay, it had already been cleared and Marjorie’s purse was nowhere to be seen. He looked for the waiter, instead.
Naturally, he was nowhere to be found. Rob waited a few minutes, impatient, and then when he still didn’t show up, he flagged down another waiter. “I need my date’s things,” he told the man. “Where’s my goddamn server?”
The man looked startled. “What section are you in?” When Rob showed him, he nodded. “He’s on break right now.”
“Then go fucking find him,” Rob gritted. “Right goddamn now.”
“Of course.” The waiter disappeared, and eventually Rob’s waiter was located, the purse retrieved. He headed back toward the bar, hoping that Marjorie hadn’t fallen asleep waiting for him.
She hadn’t. She was leaning close to a guy at the bar who was looking down the front of her dress, and giggling as she tossed back a shot.
Furious, Rob stormed over. “Marjorie, what are you doing?”
She turned around on the barstool and beamed at him, all cleavage and drunken smiles. “I’m doing shots with this lovely gentleman!” She patted the man on the arm. “He’s so nice, and he bought them for me.”
“You shouldn’t be doing shots,” Rob told her. “Not after all that wine.”
“Lay off, man,” the guy said and slid her another shot. “She’s just having a little fun.”
“Jimmy,” she said, “This is my date, Rob. Isn’t he pretty?”
Jimmy looked him up and down. “Nope. You’re more my type, darlin’.”
“Not your darlin’,” she said merrily before swigging the next shot. She coughed as soon as it went down. “Ugh, that one was rough. What was it?”
“Tequila,” Jimmy answered.
“Marjorie, come on,” Rob said. Hell and fuck. Why was he the one being all responsible and shit? But the way “Jimmy” was eyeing Marjorie made him want to punch the fucker’s lights out, and Marjorie was too tipsy to realize it was a bad idea to take drinks from strangers. “You really shouldn’t be doing shots.”
“It’s okay,” she told him. “Liquor after beer, never fear.”
“It’s liquor before beer,” Rob corrected, putting a possessive hand on Marjorie’s back. “And you can’t handle your alcohol either way. We should return.”
Jimmy stood up, all five foot three of him, and sneered at Rob. “The lady can do what she wants, friend. She ain’t married to you.”
“You want to make this a fight?” Rob asked, getting in the smaller man’s face. Oh, he was just itching for a fight. Brawling was something that he excelled at.
A low “urp” made both men pause. Rob turned back to look at Marjorie, who had her hands clenched firmly on the wood lip of the bar. Her face had gone pale and sweaty, and she blinked at Rob. “I . . . don’t feel so good.”
Then she turned and vomited at his feet.
Chapter Nine
It was a long fucking boat ride back.
Marjorie puked all the way from the restaurant back to the boat. She spent the entire ride back to Seaturtle Cay with her head over the railing, violently ill. When they made it back to the island, she was so exhausted from puking that she did little more than curl up in the backseat of the taxi and dry heave, her head in his lap. And even Rob, who wasn’t the most sympathetic of people even on a good day, felt sorry for her. He stroked her hair while she wept and heaved and generally made a mess wherever she went.
By the time they got back to the lobby of the Seaturtle Cay Resort, they were both exhausted. Marjorie had fallen asleep and so Rob carried her inside. Her body was long but her form was light, and it was no trouble to haul her up the steps. First stop: the front desk, to get a key for Marjorie’s room. He knew the room number, but his date was asleep. If he woke her up to get the card, he suspected the vomiting would start again, and neither of them wanted that. Right now, she was mostly at peace, her nose pressed against his neck, her breathing soft and exhausted.