“He’s taking one for the team for you. Don’t you think you should take one for him too?” Jules arches a brow.

I blow out a breath and look up at the ceiling. She has a point. He’s here to save me from Joey, and I’ve pretty much left him to the wolves because I can’t handle how I feel about him or all the attention he’s getting, which makes me a pretty damn bad date. I guess I should return the favor and save him from the fangirls and boys by acting like his actual date.

The second I step back into the event room, I regret it. The DJ has slowed the music from the upbeat, clichéd dance tunes to something slow. The first person I run into is Joey. He takes my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor before I can protest. Or kick him in the balls.

When I don’t make a move to put my hands on any part of him, he leans in, lips at my ear. “Our bosses are watching, so let’s at least pretend we get along for five minutes. Besides, it looks like your date is preoccupied.” Joey moves my hands to his shoulders and tips his head to the right.

I follow his gaze and find Bishop still sitting in the chair at the table. A brunette who is obviously an athlete, based on her muscle tone, and wearing a very revealing, skimpy dress is practically sitting in his lap. If she could hump his leg, I’m sure she would. As it is, her hand is resting on his shoulder, and if I had to guess, by the way she’s leaning in, her boob is probably propped up on his forearm.

“Seriously?” I’m gone five minutes, and some woman is trying to publicly hump him.

“Listen, baby, I know it’s been a rough start here. I know it’s taking you some time to get over it, but I really think you and me can work this out.”

I return my attention to Joey. “Have you started smoking crack?”

“What?” His toothy grin falters, and his gaze moves from my rack to my face.

“Or maybe it’s meth.”

His brow twists into a furrow. “What are you talking about, Stevie?”

“What are you talking about, Joey?”

He looks puzzled. I’m pretty sure he’s been drinking. I don’t know why I’m even entertaining this, or letting him put his hands on me, other than I’m completely shocked by the fact that the guy I’d like to be my boyfriend is currently snuggling with some fangirl puck bunny.

God, I’m confused.

And my brain is even more muddled when all of a sudden Bishop cuts in. One second I’m trying to impale Joey with my nails through layers of suit jacket and shirt, and the next Bishop’s elbowing him out of the way.

“That’s my date, not yours, but thanks for warming up the floor for me. Now fuck off.” Bishop glares at Joey, who looks like he wants to argue for all of half a second before he steps back.

Bishop grips my waist and pulls me against him. I automatically lace my fingers behind his neck. I don’t even think about it, or of the intimacy of having the entire front of my body pressed right up against his for the second time tonight.

Bishop’s wide, warm palm rests against my lower back. The skin-to-skin contact should be something I’m used to, but normally it’s my hand on his bare skin, not the other way around. The electric feeling is back, zinging through me in little pulses of lightning that end up in my vagina.

It would be great if I were less attracted to this man.

Bishop drops his head so his mouth is at my ear. “What the hell is going on?”

His lips brush the shell as he speaks, making my knees weak. It takes me several seconds to realize he sounds pissed and that he’s not asking me to take off my clothes on the dance floor. I have to tip my chin up to reach his ear, causing his stubbly cheek to rub against mine. For whatever reason, I imagine how that might feel on the inside of my thigh, so my response comes out all low and breathy. “What do you mean?”

God, he smells good. Like cologne and laundry detergent and that bodywash he uses. It’s not fancy. He uses Old Spice, something I can get from any CVS or grocery store. I bet he even stocks up when it’s on sale, because he usually has three or four reserve bottles in his linen closet at any given time. Whatever the smell is, combined with the other, less powerful scents and what makes him uniquely him, it’s ridiculously appealing.

“You’re being weird. And not like pineapples-and-olives-on-pizza weird. Why were you dancing with the douche ex? Why am I here with you if you’re going to pretend I don’t even exist?”

“That’s not . . . I’m not . . .” He’s right. I am being weird. I have no idea what’s going on—if he’s really here out of obligation, or if I’ve read more into this than I should—so I splutter and fumble for an excuse that makes sense. “He caught me off guard, and you were busy with your puck bunny.”

Bishop pulls back, brow furrowed. It’s a sexy look on his gorgeous face. “You mean that chick that couldn’t take a hint? I told her seven times I had a date. I’m trying out this new thing where I’m not an asshole all the time to everyone. Especially since I’m here with you, and I don’t want to leave a shit impression with all of these people.” He lifts one hand from my back and flails in the general direction of the people on the dance floor. “You were taking forever in the bathroom, and then I see you with your douche ex all fucking cozy. I’m done dancing around this shit, Stevie.”