Agreements With Mr Rich Boy | ✓

32 | A Drunk German

I PICKED MYSELF UP off the floor, not wanting to make it seem like this is what I did at parties (okay, maybe I did but they didn't need to know that), and side stepped a couple of boys throwing a vase between each other.

I cringed as I heard it smash behind me and footsteps running away from the scene. Turning my gaze backwards, I didn't realise— until it happened— that I was walking straight towards something.. or, somebody, more to the point.

"Shit," I said when my body crashed into theirs. "Sorry about that."

I looked up, straining my eyes in the now reddish lights bearing down at us all from the walls. Despite my almost inability to see, I could just make out those ocean eyes staring down at me.

He brought me to his chest, hands resting respectfully on my hips, and a slight smirk on his face. Those he was speaking to were long forgotten by him, yet I could feel their eyes flitting over to us every now and then. Archer leant down so that we were eye level and for the second time that night, had me overwhelmed with his scent.

Breath on my neck, he whispered, "I'll forgive you."

I coughed a little awkwardly, but made no move to detach myself from him. Instead, I pulled back so that I could see his face, trying to gauge just how much alcohol he'd drunk.

"You better," I whispered back.

He laughed a little. "Dance with me."

As if he'd controlled it, the band changed songs, reverting to a simpler, more gentle song and I felt my body hum with the sound. Without waiting much for an answer, Archer clasped my hand in his and led me, people dispersing as we went, to the centre of the floor.

I waited for him to do the honours. And, following his lead, placed a hand on his shoulder and the other in his raised, awaiting one. His fingers felt so warm and as though I could count each ridge of his fingerprint, that the material separating our skin may not have been there at all for all it's worth.

"I don't know how to dance," I whispered, becoming very aware of everyone watching us.

"Just follow my lead," he whispered back, eyes drifting from our hands to me. "And if we fuck up entirely, they'll all be too drunk to notice."

I appreciated the use of 'we,' when we both knew if we did "fuck up" the one to be entirely at fault would be me, and me only.

I nodded. "Sorry if I break you," I said, looking down at our feet.

He placed his finger under my chin so that we reconnected eyes once again. "It'll take a lot more than you stepping on my foot to break me, Jolie."

"Believe me, Archer, I'd find a way to break you somehow."

We were so close, I could see the pores I didn't think he even had. Each crevice, each slight line on his lips, I drank in with my eyes, not knowing whether I'd see art like him so close again. Yes, it was wrong to find my fake boyfriend so attractive, but for anyone with eyes, that much was obvious. I'd only be in trouble when it wasn't just his looks that entranced me.

"I don't not believe that."

I'd barely registered that we were moving, gliding this way and that. Momentarily, I began to panic because surely, surely, I'd mess this up somehow with these club feet.