Chelsea tilted her head back. “Like?”

“My tennis shoe, the other day. Now it has gnaw marks on the toe.”

She couldn’t help but laugh. “Maybe she needs more chew toys.”

“That’s what Emma told me. But I bought her toys. She still ate my shoe.”

Chelsea shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I don’t have dogs.”

He twirled her around, circling the dance floor with ease. She had to admit she felt comfortable in his arms, almost as if she belonged there. She’d danced with a lot of guys before. Some of them were clumsy, some stepped on her toes, and some—like Bash—danced with confidence. He held her hand firmly, but didn’t crush it. He had a good hold on her back, and he directed her, instead of expecting her to lead, like a lot of guys who had no idea how to dance.

She had to admit, she liked that. And the way he looked at her. His gaze didn’t wander. He had gorgeous eyes, and amazing lashes. He pulled her closer, her breasts pillowed against his chest.

She shouldn’t enjoy being held in his arms, but she did. He had a rock-hard body, and she’d felt every inch of it against hers when he’d kissed her at his house. She also hadn’t been so drunk last week that she couldn’t remember how good he’d tasted when she’d kissed him again.

Foolish thoughts. He wasn’t the right guy for her. Still, that temptation lingered. And his hand roamed along her back …

“Place is full,” Bash said, drawing her attention away from the way their bodies glided together.

“Yes.”

“So are you going to try to find Mr. Perfect here tonight?”

She frowned at his smug smile. How could he be so delicious to look at and to kiss and so utterly wrong for her? “I might.”

As the song ended, he took a step back. “I’ll be sure to be on the lookout for him. If I see someone who I think fits, I’ll send him your way.”

There it was again, that feeling of rightness in his arms, while he was trying to find someone else for her.

So. Irritating.

She nodded. “You do that.”

She walked away and headed for the main table, where the wedding party would sit for dinner. Where she’d be required to sit next to him again.

But only temporarily. She would be scouting this wedding for Mr. Perfect.

And it sure as hell wouldn’t be Bash.

Chapter 13

Bash leaned against the bar, nursing a bottle of beer as he watched couples crowd the dance floor.

He’d done his duty and stood up for his best friend tonight. Logan and Des were currently tangled in the crush of bodies on the dance floor doing some kind of line dance to a country song.

Logan couldn’t dance for shit, but he was doing his best to keep up with his bride. Bash pondered whipping out his phone to get video of this, but he knew Logan wouldn’t be embarrassed like some of his other friends would be. He’d just watch the video and laugh. So what was the point?

But he really was a bad dancer. Good thing Des loved him. She grabbed his arm and kept trying to direct him to the correct foot to lead off on.

Waste of time. Logan would never get it.

Bash slid his empty toward the bartender and asked for another, feeling strange to be on this side of the bar tonight. It was a good thing he had great staff to fill in for him at No Hope at All. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had two Saturday nights off. Probably …

Never. He worked weekends. It was his bar, his baby. He took nights off during the week, but weekends were busy, and it was his responsibility to be there. Fortunately, over the past few years he’d hired competent staff, and Hall, his assistant manager, was doing a great job. He knew Hall could handle anything that came up tonight. Bash could relax and enjoy himself.

He pushed off the bar and wandered around, stopping to visit with people he knew, which was pretty much everyone except the handful of Hollywood people in attendance. And he actually had gotten to know a few of those as well. Colt and Tony made regular visits to Hope to hang out with Des and Logan, and they often stopped at the bar to visit, so he’d gotten close to them. They were great guys and a good, solid couple.

His gaze strayed across the room and landed on Chelsea, who was deep in conversation with Jeff Armstrong, one of Hope’s ER docs.

Bash frowned. He knew Jeff was single. He mentally compared Jeff with Chelsea’s list.

He didn’t see a fit there. Maybe according to her list, but Bash just didn’t see it.

When Chelsea got up and walked away, Bash met her halfway across the room.

He grasped her arm. “Jeff Armstrong?”

“What about him?”

“I don’t see it.”

She lifted her chin. “Why not?”

“He works a lot of nights and weekends in the ER, ya know.”

“I do know that. And we were just chatting.”

“Did he ask you out?”

“And this is your business in what way, Bash?”

In no way. He didn’t even know why he cared who she decided to go out with. But he did. “I told you I was going to find men for you that met your list, right?”

“You did say that.”

“If you’ve already found one, I won’t waste my time.”

Her gaze met his, and that collision of blue green never failed to tighten his gut. “Really, Bash. Either way, don’t waste your time.”

He slid his hand down her arm, tangling his fingers with hers. “Oh, but I’m interested in your happiness, Chelse.”