“Nothing.” She blinked again, and his sigh vibrated into her shoulder moments before long fingers untangled her hands so he could wrap his fingers with hers. With a slight tug, he urged her to her feet and into the aisle. Conscious of the hundreds of people around them, she resisted his pull. “Colt.”
No one was watching them, though, least of all their mothers, every female eye in the house trained on the man singing about not talking to strangers. He was almost Mr. Gene’s age, but the man was still hot.
With his normal inexorable patience, Colt drew her up the aisle with him to the lobby, where the bored security guards gave them a less-than-interested glance. Her heels clicked onthe polished marble, a contrast to the authoritative thud of his boots.
She tried once more to tug free of him. “Colton.”
He refused to let go, but stopped before one of the tall windows, bringing her around to face him. Finally, he dropped her hand, only to cup her face in both palms. “What’s the matter, Hols?”
The diminutive did her in, coupled with the concern and affection in his solemn dark eyes — concern and affection when she wanted so much more. Her eyes filled.
“Please don’t do that.” With a rough groan, he dropped a kiss on her mouth and folded her close, rubbing her back. The soothing comfort didn’t help because he rubbed Laura’s back the same way during a meltdown. “Babe.”
Eyes scrunched shut, she buried her face against his throat.
“Holly.” His sigh rumbled under her chin. “Please tell me what’s going on.”
“I’m just hormonal. You know what I’m like right before my period.” She was actually a couple days past the predicted date on her phone, but that was normal. Lorraine could plan a calendar around her cycle, lucky duck. Holly? Not so much.
Another exhale vibrated up from his lungs, and she cringed. Yeah, she wouldn’t fall in love with her either.
He stepped back, swiped a thumb under her left eye so she cringed again, and gave her a gentle shove toward the door to the beer garden. “Come on.”
“Colt, no, they’ll wonder—”
“Pfft.” He reached by her to push the door open, navy blazer stretching taut across his shoulders. A hint of his subtle aftershave, the source of that cedar smell, wafted over her withthe cool rush of outside air. “They don’t even know we’re gone, and if they do, they don’t care. You want a glass of wine?”
Sure, because alcohol and premenstrual hormones made an amazing mix. “No, sparkling water or something is fine.”
“Give me a second.” He squeezed her arm. “Be right back.”
Reaching for his wallet, he strode toward the bar, weaving through the empty tables scattered about the small garden. Of course the pretty little area was empty. All the normal people who could control their emotions were inside, rocking out to “Jesse’s Girl.” She watched him go, helplessly drawn to the fit of snug denim on his butt and thighs. She enjoyed looking at his rear end almost as much as she loved flexing her fingers into the muscles there while he thrust inside her.
Brushing a finger under her lashes, she crossed to the iron-and-brick fence, looking toward the riverfront park. Holiday lights sparkled everywhere, mocking her, and she rested her elbows on the shallow ledge there, designed to hold a drink, maybe a tapas plate. She released a shaky breath. She had to get it together.
A hard arm snaked about her waist from behind, and he held a sparkling clear-and-red drink before her. “Here.”
She wrapped her trembling fingers around the icy glass. “What is it?”
“Hell if I know.” Humor rumbled in his bourbon-and-honey voice. He hooked his chin atop her head. “I told the guy I needed something classy and nonalcoholic.”
“Classy.” She sipped, sweet and sharp and cranberry flowing over her tongue. “Yep, that’s me tonight.”
“Hey.” He nudged her lower back with a knuckle. “Cut that out.”
She subsided, soaking in the sturdy warmth of his chest at her spine, the strength of his arm across her belly, the hit of sugar and juice and fizz in her drink.
Damn it, he made everything perfect, and she was just a perfect mess.
Silence hung about them in a shimmering bubble, undisturbed by the throb of muffled music from the auditorium and the chatter of voices from the sidewalk. She relaxed into him. Being with him made everything better, even her puffy, sore-boobs PMS days.
He brushed a kiss over her temple, then rubbed his chin on her hair. “I love you, Holly.”
She froze. “What?”
“You heard me.” His chuckle puffed against her hair. “I love you.”
Wrapping cold fingers about his wrist, she elbowed his gut, trying to spin in his embrace.
