“Oh, come on.” She leans in, eyes sparkling, red mouth pouty. “I want to be a Colorado girl.”
“You’ll break your neck.”
“Not if you teach me.”
I shake my head. “We’ll talk.”
She grins like that’s a win. Then she spins and throws a single dart at the board… and actually nails a decent number. She squeals, hand flying to my forearm this time, fingers wrapping around hard muscle.
“Did you see that?” she says, eyes huge.
“Yeah. I saw.”
I saw the way your tits bounced when you jumped. I saw the way all that happy energy spilled out of you. I saw the wayevery guy in this bar noticed you and the way you didn’t notice them because you were looking at me.
It’s… too much.
I feel it start to crawl up my spine, that mix of want and warning. This is how it starts. Fun, easy, innocent. Next thing I know, I’m in her apartment again or, worse, in her bed, and then Maddie’s calling me on Christmas asking why the hell I touched her best friend and broke her fucking heart.
I clear my throat and look back toward the bar. “We should wrap it up.”
Her face falls. Just a flicker, but I catch it. “Already?”
“It’s getting late,” I say, reaching into my back pocket for my wallet. “We gotta walk you home still.”
“I can pay,” she says immediately, digging for her purse that she left on the high-top. “I said I owed you the drink.”
“I know what you said.” I close my hand over her wrist before she can pull her wallet free. I feel her warm, soft skin and instantly regret the contact. I let go right away. “I’ve got it.”
“Cole,” she groans, following me as I head back toward the bar. “You were supposed to let me pay. That was literally the whole point.”
“A woman never pays,” I toss over my shoulder.
She mutters something about “old-fashioned” and “annoying” but she’s smiling when I hand the bartender cash for both rounds and toss a tip in the jar.
When I turn back, she’s already got her coat in her arms, cheeks pink. She slides it on, zipping it halfway. “Fine,” she says, tugging on her gloves. “But now I definitely owe you.”
Yeah. That’s the problem, I want you to pay me back in all sorts of filthy ways.
The temperature has dropped outside, and the snow has picked up, little flakes swirling under the streetlights, landing in her hair. The Copper Tap door shuts behind us and the musicmuffles, leaving just the crunch of our boots and the quiet of a Denver winter night.
She falls into step beside me, bumping my arm with hers. “You do realize,” she says, voice playful, “that you were supposed to let me pay. That was the whole thing.”
“I told you,” I say, shoving my hands into my pockets, “a woman never pays.”
She pokes me in the ribs through my coat, bold now. “Is that a general rule or a date rule?”
I stop.
She doesn’t. She takes two more steps before she realizes I’ve halted, then turns back, breath puffing in front of her mouth, eyes wide and teasing. I look at her for a long second, the streetlight throwing gold over her face, the red of her mouth, the little snowflakes caught on her lashes.
“It’s a general rule,” I say finally, voice low. “I don’t let women pay.”
Her brows rise just a fraction, like she heard the subtext. Then she smiles and keeps walking, like she didn’t just yank the rug out from under my self-control.
We head toward her building, boots crunching, our breath clouding the air. There aren’t many people out, it’s far too cold. She pulls her coat tighter around her.
“So…” she says, glancing up at me. “Are you coming home for Christmas this year?”
