He could do all of that and more for the chance to touch her, pull her into his arms, hold her for three or four minutes straight as they danced.

The last notes of a ballad filled the ballroom, and since the deejay had announced it was the final slow song of the night, Cole soaked in all the details of the woman in his arms—the silky wisps of russet-brown hair that framed her face and teased her shoulders, the curves at her waist, where her muscled torso flared into modest hips, the bewitchingly feminine scent that brought to mind seduction and those curls and braids draping over high-thread-count sheets.

As they eased apart, she flashed him a smile, her slightly bowed lips revving his pulse like they did every time she smiled, whether on a jobsite in her standard cargo work pants and T-shirt or here, looking like a dream in midnight-blue.

“I’ve had you out here for every single slow song tonight,” she said, leaning close to be heard. “You’re a saint.”

He nearly snorted at that and gripped his tie to keep from holding on to her too long. “A saint would dance to all the songs, slow or not. You got stuck with the wrong guy.”

She raised a teasing brow. “You say you can’t dance to upbeat songs, but I bet you have secret moves,” she said generously.

He had moves, all right, but they weren’t dance floor appropriate.

“My sister should make her exit soon,” Sierra said, glancing around for the newlyweds.

As she and Cole turned to walk off the dance floor in the center of the Wentworth ballroom, she hooked her hand around his forearm, and his focus once again zeroed in on the contact.

There’d been touches throughout the night, innocent touches outside of the dance floor as she guided him, directed him, introduced him, and Cole had noticed every single one of them, felt the hum in his blood from her proximity. He’d have to spend tomorrow forcibly putting all of it out of his mind so he could work by her side on Monday morning without battling a perpetual hard-on.

They reached the maze of tables surrounding the dance floor as an old-school disco tune started up and a loud quartet of women in their fifties rushed out to get their groove on.

“Sierra, honey,” came an elderly female voice from a couple of tables away.

“My great-aunt Lucy,” Sierra said as she veered them to the left toward her aunt. Sierra angled a chair to face the elderly woman and sat down in it. Cole followed suit like a good date.

He’d not yet been introduced to this woman. He’d remember the slightly lavender hair that matched the decidedly lavender dress.

“How are you doing, Aunt Lucy?” Sierra asked her. “Are you having a good time?”