“I’ve watched a few of your matches, Hayes,” I say, and his smile is the brighter than all the Christmas trees in the room. He dips me, a squeal escaping from my lips when the ends of my hair graze the floor. “But don’t flatter yourself. It’s only so I can roast you on social media and call you Bombshell.” “That explains the uptick in comments using that nickname. I knew you had ulterior motives.” He sets me back on two feet. His thumb rubs along the dip in the fabric on the back of my dress, and the contact is searing.
