“You know, I was just thinking that.”
His palm eases over the top of my ass cheek, fingers digging into the flesh just a little, grabbing hold of me. I slide my hands under the hem of his T-shirt, needing to feel his skin. Hot, smooth, and perfect. It’s a visceral thing, the need to get closer. I rest my chin on his chest, staring up at him. Being this close gives me full body tingles. In this low light, his gaze is all dark and mysterious. And very sexy. The man makes me so giddy I can’t think straight. Too many sensations, so much yum. It wouldn’t take much to reach up and press his mouth to mine. How tempting. I can barely even remember why I thought waiting to go further was a good idea. Caution means nothing when your blood’s running hot and your hormones have been so thoroughly agitated.
Then, I ruin it all by yawning. My jaw even cracks nice and loud. “Oh God. Sorry.”
He laughs. “Think we better call it a night. Let you get some sleep.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“Want me to walk you home?”
I shake my head. “It’s fine, thanks.”
And he just stands there and looks at me for the longest moment. If only I could read his mind. I don’t know why this gets to me so much, all of the attention he’s showing. But it does. My body adores the way this man watches me as if nothing else matters. The complete focus in his gaze. Already I’m learning there’s nothing half-assed about Beck. A change from the last few guys I dated. Not that we’re dating. I don’t actually know what this is.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” he asks, hand resting low on my back, thumb rubbing back and forth against the cotton of my shirt.
“Right.” I smile. I can’t wait.
CHAPTER TWO
When he walked into work the next day, I felt like I could breathe again. Like I’d been bracing myself, expecting him to disappear, expecting to be disappointed. I don’t want to feel this way. I don’t want to be this invested. It isn’t wise. I kind of also dressed up for him, but also for myself. Sixty/forty maybe. I don’t know. But one of my favorite outfits is a pair of skinny jeans that hug my ass and a short-sleeved black button down with a stand-up collar. Makes me feel fancy, especially with my hair braided and small silver hoop earrings.
I have it so bad for the boy. God help me.
And hey, odds are good that he will lose interest. Get distracted by one of the babes who frequent the bar or something. Lord knows he receives enough attention. Not that I was watching him all night. But I was sort of watching him all night. What can I say? He’s very watchable. Or maybe he’ll get sick of the place and its dumbass management and leave. Who could blame him? And yet, after closing time, when it’s just he and I…
“Would you mind disposing of these for me please, wife?” he asks, depositing a collection of numbers and names scrawled on pieces of beer mats, dockets, and other strips of paper on the bar.
“You sure you don’t want to keep any of them?”
“Nope.”
“Okay.” I sweep them all up in my hands and drop them into a trashcan. “Why does giving them to me feel like a statement on your part?”
“Because it is,” he says. “Sometimes it’s important to not only do the right thing, but to be seen doing it.”
“Huh.”
“That’s some wisdom from my stepmom.”
“Are you close to her?” I ask.
“Yeah. Reasonably so.” He turns his face away. “Like I said, complicated family.”
“You must miss some of them, though, right?”
“Sure.” The dismissive way he says this is less than convincing. “Some of them.”
“Don’t you get lonely, moving from town to town?”
For a long moment, he just looks at me. The hint of sadness in his eyes giving way to something else. Happiness or hope maybe. It’s hard to say. Beck is a mystery I long to unravel.
“Not when I’m with you,” he says. “When I’m with you, wife, I’m exactly where I want to be.”
“Smooth.”
He grins and leans the broom against a table, resting his elbows on the bar. “Do you have any phone numbers you feel the need to dispose of? No pressure.”
“Ha. No pressure.” I smile. “But no. I don’t accept numbers.”
“I hope you’d accept mine. If I had a phone.”
“You don’t have a phone?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “When you have a cell, then people you don’t necessarily want to be able to contact you can do so and it’s just a steep path straight into hell so far as I can tell.”
“Ah.”
“If it was just you sexting me that would be fine. But it inevitably wouldn’t be.” And at these words his mask slips once more. Just like last night in the diner when he went blank and distant. Only this time, his jaw is rigid. Seems like whatever he’s trying to outrun isn’t behind him just yet. But I guess that could be said of most of us and our emotional baggage.
I hate seeing him hurt or upset. “If you had a phone, I would definitely accept your number.”
His answering grin is the slow sexy one. It turns my knees to water. “I’m very glad to hear that, Alice. How about a drink?”
“Not a problem. What would you like?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
“We’re having a drink together? All right, let me see.” I set up two shot glasses and pour the Don Julio silver tequila. If I hadn’t already cleaned up the bulk of the bar I’d have made us margaritas. But maybe another time. It’s a warm late summer night and tequila feels about right.
“You’re not messing around,” he says.
“Nothing says you’re serious like tequila.” We each pick our glasses, clinking them together before downing them in one. The liquor warms my throat all the way down. Shots are always a bit dangerous. But then everything about this man feels dangerous. To my head and my heart and my loins combined.
He does a little bow. “Now I would like to ask you to dance.”
“Are you sure we’re up to that? What do the rules say?”
“Since dancing is basically just hugging and rocking back and forth a little, strictly speaking, we would still be in accordance with the rules. As long as you can restrain yourself from attempting any ass grabbing, that is.”
“Well, I’ll do my best. But no promises.”
“May I check out your playlist please, wife?”
I pass him my phone, wandering around to the other side of the bar. He takes his time selecting a song, smiling, frowning, and even snorting at some of my music choices. Judgey, much? Finally, “You’re the One” by Greta Van Fleet starts playing over the stereo system. You really can’t beat it for a slow rock ballad. He has taste. And I stand there like an idiot, unwilling to make the first move. Again he simply opens his arms in invitation.
“I’ll try not to step on your toes,” I joke, getting nearer to him.
“Stomp to your heart’s content. I can take it.”
Where to touch him…his broad shoulders seem like the safest choice, so I rest my hands lightly there. Meanwhile he slides his arms loosely around my waist. The moment I touch him, enter into his personal space, it’s not awkward anymore. It’s exciting and thrilling and a thousand other things. But not uncomfortable.