“Sorry, what?”

“People often shy away from eye contact, but not you. I’m not even sure if you’re aware you’re doing it. It’s taking all my will power to not excuse myself to the bathroom and go check if I have food stuck to my face, or between my teeth.”

I knew I was staring, but I didn’t realize how blatantly I was doing it. Shit.

“I like to look at pretty things,” I quip, raising my glass to take a drink. The second the words pass my lips and fall into the small space between us, I want to snatch them right back. It’s too late for that now, so I follow them up with a groan. “That sounded cheesy as hell to my own ears. I don’t even want to know how oily it sounded to you. Let’s pretend that I apologized for the ogling, shall we?” I ask hopefully.

“Your cool points just took a serious nosedive,” she laughs. “It’s going to be a lot of work to bring them back up to par.”

I laugh despite myself and shrug. “It was all running so smoothly too. Damn! Let’s get all the cliché bullshit out of the way. Then if you still like what’s left, we can be friends and the next time I say something as smarmy and asinine you can just tell me to shut the hell up.”

“Sounds like a great idea,” she beams. “But won’t it be awkward if I don’t like what’s left?” she challenges, raising one brow and piercing me with a smirk that I’m feeling simmer all the way down in the pit of my stomach.

“Sweetheart, that ain’t ever gonna happen,” I tell her in my best attempt at a smooth southern drawl. She almost splutters her wine back into her glass, and I pass her my napkin with a wide grin.

“Okay, hit me with them…let the question and answer session begin.”

I cough, and sit taller, back straight and taut like I’m about to begin conducting an interview.

“So, I really want to get to know you. Why don’t you tell me your likes and dislikes, a little about your family, what you like to do for fun?” I smile.

“Really,” she retorts, looking completely disinterested and utterly unimpressed. “I give you free reign, and that’s all you can muster? You’re asking for my backstory, but let’s be honest. You’re not interested in the answers; you’re probably under the delusion that a woman’s favorite subject is herself, and I hate to break it to you, but I’m not like most women. How about I answer the questions you really want to know, and we can save ourselves a little boredom?”

Wow. Not what I was expecting.

“I think I just fell in love with you,” I joke. “I like how direct you are, but it’s also a little intimidating. I’ll attest to you not being like most women.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was intended as one, Robyn. Okay…first question. You’re single, right?”

“Right,” she smiles.

“And it’s a new thing?”

“Almost four weeks.”

Damn. Suddenly the word rebound is dancing in the forefront of my mind. I don’t do rebounds; they’re messy at best and a total disaster in general.

“Is that the reason you were so adamant that this date would lead nowhere?”

She looks surprised by my question and leans back into the plush golden fabric of the chair, cradling her glass of wine as though mulling over some great mystery of the universe. I wait for her reply a little too eagerly. She’s lost in her own thoughts, and I begin to think that she’s forgotten I’d even asked her a question. Her brows are furrowed, and I’m sure I see when her pain arrives. The gentle curve of her mouth flattens into a hard line, and I don’t know her enough to know if she’s upset, angry or both, but it has me regretting my candor.

“You don’t have to answer that, Robyn. Please forgive—”

“No, it’s fine,” she interrupts. “Yes, I guess Daniel is why I’m so closed off. Among other things, he left me without warning, and I’m mad that I didn’t see it coming. To add insult to injury, he kind of screwed me over and left a trail of destruction that I have no choice but to clean up. I have so much going on at the moment. If I’m honest, I don’t think I could add anything else to it without dropping the ball and everything in my life imploding.” She sighs, breathing out a long exaggerated breath. “You probably think I’m being dramatic, correct?”

“I don’t know you enough to make that judgment,” I tell her. “I’d like to, though.”

A blush colors her somber pallor and her lip quirks. I love that I’m having an effect on her, even after her confession.

“I like you, Cole. I wasn’t expecting to this much. Your timing kind of sucks!”

My heart leaps and my stomach bottoms all at once. She likes me, and she doesn’t want to. Her life is complicated, mine’s demanding, and there are a million reasons why I should just walk away, bow out and admit defeat graciously. But she’s an enigma that I could quite happily see myself spending an inordinate amount of time attempting to figure out. She’s unwittingly issued a challenge: she’s a Rubik’s Cube, and I’m already addicted.

I’VE NEVER THOUGHT twice about watching the girls dance. I own the club; I pay their wages, and I’m around when they practice. I observe them with my business head, looking for ways to tighten their acts, give the customers what they want and ultimately maximize profits. Viewing for pleasure has never been my thing. Sure, in the early days I got my fill of the privileges of owning a burlesque club, but it quickly aged. The enjoyment gave way to analysis, the luster rapidly dulling. The extraordinary soon morphed into the ordinary, and it became commonplace to talk to the girls in various states of undress without the awkwardness of any underlying sexual tension.

Today is the exception.

The new girl is stretching on stage, waiting for the others before their rehearsals begin. She’s in yoga pants and what appears to be a sports bra and nothing else. I haven’t been able to look away since she walked in, set her bag down, removed her sweater and began her warm up. I’ve wiped down the same spot on the bar now for the last ten minutes and I’m continually cursing myself for the lack of willpower to go back upstairs. I swear I’m getting high from the polish fumes. It was a knee-jerk reaction employing her, but I’ve never seen anyone so immersed in what they’re doing. She wasn’t just dancing; hell, I don’t know what I’d call it. She was mesmerizing to watch. Her movements fluid, full of grace and completely in tune with her body.

I know better than to place temptation under my nose, and Tweet embodies it. I called her Tweet aloud by accident yesterday when she was here; it wasn’t one of my most professional moments. When she talks her voice is almost musical, she makes everything sound like a song. She’s also small and dainty so the name kind of just fit. In my mind anyway…I’ve been calling her Tweet to myself ever since the first time I heard her speak. I couldn’t tell her that, though, and when she’d laughed and asked me why I’d referred to her as Tweet I panicked. All I could come up with was to say that she’s named after a bird, and I’d forgotten which one. She looked at me like I’d been smoking crack, so I confessed I’ve been calling her Tweet since the first day we met. It was one of those moments when you sound dumb as fuck, even to your own ears, but you’ve run with it so you see it through instead of admitting you’re full of shit. Declaring that her voice sounds more beautiful to me than the sweetest of symphonies would make one hell of an awkward working relationship, and no doubt make me sound like a dick.

“There you are.”

I glance over to see Annie rounding the bar towards me. I risk a quick glimpse back to the stage only to discover Tweet looking at us. I catch her eye and we both look away at the same time, embarrassed that we’ve caught each other staring. I really shouldn’t admit how pleased I am about that fact.