Since Christy was in love, she wanted everyone else to be too, but guys like Bob/Bill weren’t making me eager to change my Facebook status to In A Relationship. Regardless, she and Paul had tried to get me back out there now that Chris was away at college, but using this guy—holy hell.
My life had been about raising Chris for so long, I didn’t know how to be just me, the woman, not the mom. And now, it was just me and this insanely good-looking guy, and I didn’t know what to do. It was one thing to talk to Bob/Bill, but I was flustered and tongue tied and overwhelmed by this man.
“Would you mind if I sit with you?” His voice was deep, cool and calm, patient.
My heart did that whole leap-into-my-throat thing as I looked up at him. Only a few feet away, he appeared a tad dangerous. His nose had been broken. I’d been right about that. There was also a scar that sliced through his left eyebrow, the whiteness of it a stark contrast to the short, dark hair. He smiled and waited.
“Oh, um. Sure.”
Gripping the back of the chair and leaning in, he murmured, “You don’t seem so sure.”
“I… I just wondered why,” I replied, sheepishly. My insecurities were showing. While I felt confident in myself as a mother, at my job, when it came to men like him and the blatant selection of younger and more nubile women at the bar, I felt lacking. With me safely away from Oyster Man, he could return to the bar, his chivalry accomplished for the night.
He frowned and a little crease formed in his brow. “Why?”
“Why you want to stay here… with me.” I pointed in the direction of the bar. “I’ll tell Paul you saved me, which you did, so thank you. You’re off the hook.”
He sat then, leaning forward, so his forearms rested on his thighs. The corded muscles were hard to ignore, and I had to wonder what the rest of the tattoo looked like, partially hidden beneath his snap shirt. All of his attention was once again squarely on me, as if there wasn’t anyone else he wanted to talk to, to look at. To be with. “Maybe I don’t want to be off the hook.”
Oh. I couldn’t look away, couldn’t do anything but realize he wanted to sit with me—me!—and I felt something shift inside. Something good. “Oh.”
“I brought you another drink.”
He held a highball glass, filled with an icy concoction with two lime wedges floating on top. Condensation trickled down the sides.
“Thanks, but I was drinking—”
“Water,” he cut in, finishing my sentence and placing the glass on the low table in front of us. His dark eyes once again watched me closely, calmly. It was as if he could shut out all the other patrons of the restaurant, the noise of dishes being stacked, even the subtle music, and give me every ounce of his attention.
“Yes,” I admitted, my eyes widening. How did he— “You’ve been watching me.”
Paul gave this guy his seal of approval, but everyone who heard their neighbor was an axe murderer swore they had no idea after a gruesome murder. I didn’t see an axe although there was no question by his solid, hard, amazing body he could hurt someone without one. I felt wary and nervous now… in a completely different way. I didn’t want him to be a creep.
He leaned back in his chair and held up his hands in front of him. “Oh, hey, I don’t want to see that pretty smile go away. Don’t worry, I’m not trying to pick you up.”
My spine stiffened, and I felt my cheeks heat. “Of course not.”
Why would he waste his time picking me up when there was the bevy of easy women inside? Surely, he just needed to crook a finger, and they’d come to him panting. He was… really, really attractive. Intense. Bob/Bill was pretty handsome, and he was a creep. This guy was more. He had presence. Confidence. He dripped testosterone from his pores, and the way I was practically panting over him, no doubt pheromones as well. He wasn’t working it here—he didn’t have to. He just… was.
He grinned, and that changed his entire demeanor. Relaxed by my sarcasm, he leaned back in his chair, elbows on the armrests. I, on the other hand, sat ramrod straight and ready to bolt.
“Shit, that was really bad, wasn’t it?” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck as he winced. “Insulting even. Sorry. I have to admit, you make me a little nervous.”
My brain stalled. “Me?” Both my eyebrows went up. “I make you nervous? You’re so far out of my league,” I admitted with a frown. Now, he’d leave.
He looked down at his feet then back at me. “Yeah, I know.” His voice was quiet, almost resigned.
“Wait.” I shook my head, held up my hand. “You think I’m… no way. Have you seen some of the women here tonight? They’re so… young.”
His dark eyes raked over me, from my—most likely—wayward hair to the tips of my polished toes and back. “And you're old?” He didn't give me time to respond. “Trust me, I’m right where I want to be.”
Oh. I couldn’t help the little internal sigh at his words.
He leaned forward once again, rasped a hand over his chiseled jaw. He'd probably shaved this morning, but he needed to do so again. Not that I minded. I wanted to run my fingers over his whiskers and see if they were soft or prickly. “Let me start over. Okay?”
I cocked my head and noticed his chagrined expression. I nodded, curious.
“I’m Gray, Paul’s personal trainer.”
“Trainer? I thought…”
Paul’s trainer? Besides the snap shirt, or beneath it, he looked like one. Fit. But fit like he lived that way, not just by pumping iron. His arms were corded with muscle, his hands rugged, fingers long. With the scar and tattoos, he looked downright dangerous, more like a fighter than a simple trainer. Perhaps he’d competed in the past. Boxing? Rodeo? He looked like he could toss bales of hay with one hand tied behind his back. Ride a bull for eight seconds and see another day.
“That I wrangle cows all day?”
I bit my lip, then smiled. “Yeah.”
What did I know about cowboy stuff? The last time I’d ridden a horse was in camp when I was eleven. Brant Valley wasn’t a metropolis like Denver, but it was still a city. Gray didn’t fit any mold my mind tried fitting him into. I just knew what I could see, what he told me. With the combination of brooding danger and a wicked smile, he was lethal to my senses and made my heart skip a beat.
He held out his hand, and I reached for it, shook it, but he didn't let go right away. Instead, he kept our fingers touching, held the connection.
“I’m Emory. Christy’s friend.”
“Emory,” he repeated, as if trying out my name, finally letting my hand go. “There we go. I didn’t screw that up.”
I rolled my eyes and smiled—I couldn’t help it—as I tucked my hand back in my lap. Every time he set me on edge, he put me at ease. “I guess I should officially thank you for rescuing me.” I angled my head toward the restaurant.
He nodded. “Paul asked if I’d step in with his cousin. Told me he was a slime ball.”
My eyes widened. “Paul said slime ball?”
Gray grinned, and the little lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “He had a more… choice word, but I don't swear in front of a lady.”