There’s a guy on the sofa, and when I see who it is, my hammering heart stalls.

HE STANDS, AND  that cocky almost-smile pulls at his perfect lips as his eyes, the pale blue of glacial ice, eat me alive.

“Hi,” he says in a deep voice, and another ripple of goose bumps pebble my skin. His pink button-down is tailored, accentuating the taper of his wide shoulders and chest, down to a narrow waist. The tails are loose over faded jeans that fit him perfectly. And on his feet are a pair of well-worn square-toed cowboy boots.

I glance back at Nora, who gives me an, “Okay?” tip of her head.

I nod and she shuts the door. I turn back to Hot Guy. “I guess I’m supposed to dance for you?”

He settles back into the cushions and lifts an eyebrow. “Unless there’s something else you had in mind.”

Oh, God. He has an accent that makes my insides go gooey. It’s not really a southern twang. It’s just something about the way the words sort of meander off his tongue—smooth, like plush velvet dripping in warm honey. And hot as hell.

“I’ll just . . . dance, I guess.”

Between my sweating palms and the fact that I’m about to hyperventilate, I feel like I’m back in high school . . . like it’s that first conversation with Trent. The way he carries himself, his easy confidence—this guy reminds me of him so much. But what he has that Trent doesn’t is a layer of sophistication over all that hotness. From his tailored clothes, to the sexy stubble on his face, to the way the left side of his mouth pulls into the hint of a secret smile, as if he knows things—it’s just so worldly.

“You do that,” he says, his eyes flickering over me, the heat in them warming me from the inside out.

I spy the stereo in the corner and stumble over to it, turning up the music. I close my eyes and start moving with the rhythm. But I’m acutely aware that I’m alone in a room with the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on. And he’s here for the sole purpose of watching me move . . . Which makes it really hard to move.

I turn my back to him and swing my hips to the slow melody, but I’m still not feeling it. I look over my shoulder and there’s an amused expression on his face, like he’s trying not to laugh. I spin and cross my arms over my chest, glaring down at him, pissed that someone I don’t even know can make me feel this stupid. “Is something funny? Please share.”

“No,” he says, eyes wide and hands in the air, all feigned candor. “By all means, continue.”

“You know, if you harass me, I can just walk out of here and you don’t get your money back, right?”

That smug, oh-so-sexy smile tugs at his mouth again as he rests his arms across the back of the sofa, pulling his shirt tight across his chest and making something tingle deep in my belly. His eyes rake over every inch of me, and after a long minute, he stands from the sofa and moves toward me, the same slow stalk that he used in the club earlier. But as he gets closer, I back away.

“There’s a three feet rule,” I warn.

His feet stall and his eyebrows arch. “Three feet rule . . . ?”

“You’re supposed to stay three feet away from me.”

He tips his head at me. “Do you want me to stay three feet away from you?”

No. “Yes.”

He catches his lower lip between his teeth for a second, disappointment clouding his eyes. “All right, then,” he finally says, backing toward the sofa. He settles into the cushions.

I just stand here, not sure whether we’re done or if he still expects me to dance.

“Sit,” he finally says after a long, awkward minute. He pats the cushion next to him.

I move to the far end of the sofa, which is just about three feet from where he’s sitting, and perch on the edge.

“I’m Harrison,” he says.

“There’s no touching,” I say, looking at his outstretched hand.

He stifles a smile and nods, pulling back his hand. “I’ll settle for your name, then.”

“Sam.”

“Short for Samantha?”

I nod.

He leans toward me, elbows on knees. “So . . . I was told you might be able to hook me up.”

My heart skips. “Hook you up?”

He taps the side of his nose and sniffs, giving me a “You know what I mean” tip of his head.

“Oh!” It’s actually a relief he’s looking for coke. “Um . . . no. Sorry.”

“You’re sure?” he asks, giving me a look. “I’d share.”

“A friend of mine can probably get you anything you want. I could ask him after my shift, if you want.”

He settles into the opposite corner of the sofa and looks at me a little funny. “How long have you worked here, Sam?”

When it becomes clear that he’s not going to try to jump me, I’m simultaneously relieved and disappointed. I glance at the clock on the wall. “About five hours.”

His eyes widen. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Wow.” He drawls out the word, like that’s in some way disappointing. “I never would have guessed based on your performance out there. It was . . .” He trails off and makes the “mind, blown” gesture with his hands at the sides of his head.

“Big Pete said it was my virgin appearance,” I say, afraid he’ll ask for his money back for the private, “so you were warned.”

“I came in after you started, so I guess I missed that.”

Even so, he must not be a regular, or he’d know I’d never danced here before. “So you don’t come here very often?”

He shakes his head. “Never been here before.”

“Why did you come tonight?”

He laces his fingers behind his head and tips it back, staring at the ceiling and blowing out a breath. “To take my mind off some things.”

“What kind of things?”

“Woman problems.” He lowers his head and rubs the back of his neck. “Thinking about it now, it’s occurring to me coming here to watch hot women dance probably wasn’t the best strategy.”

“You have a girlfriend?” Ignoring the cramp in my stomach isn’t as easy as I hope it’s going to be. I lower a hand to my belly and press.

“Had. A fiancée, actually.”

“Had,” I repeat.

He lifts his eyes, but not his head, peering at me out from under some of the longest lashes I’ve ever seen. “She left me standing at the altar a few weeks ago.”

His aloof confidence is gone, replaced by a vulnerability I never would have guessed at. But instead of making him pathetic, it makes him so much sexier. There’s at least twenty seconds where I forget how to breathe. I can’t imagine what kind of person would leave this—one of the most perfect examples of the male species I’ve ever seen—standing at the altar.

“Wow. Sorry.”

He shrugs, trying to play it off, but he can’t totally hide how deep it cuts. “Shit happens.”

“Tell me about her.”

He sinks back into the cushions. “You really want to talk about this?”

I get up and turn down the music. “Yeah.”

“I have to say, this is the last thing I expected when I walked in here.”

I settle onto the sofa, closer than I was before. “What did you expect?”

There’s an amused glint in his eyes. “Me. A private room. The most devastatingly gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen. That doesn’t seem like a recipe for pouring my heart out about my ex.”

Electricity ripples under my skin. I shudder, and hope he doesn’t notice. What I really want to say is, “You think I’m devastatingly gorgeous?” But what I say instead is, “You don’t have to talk about it if it makes you uncomfortable.”

He leans in a little, and I wish it was more. “I get the feeling you’re a good listener.”

“I am.” I could listen to that lazy drawl all day.

That almost-smile curves his lips again, but this time it’s shyer. “You seriously want to hear this?”

Maybe my motives aren’t exactly pure, because I really want to know what type of woman it takes to snare this guy’s heart, but I do. “Yeah.”

He looks at me a moment longer, then blows out a breath and rubs his neck again. “I’ve loved her forever.”