A muscle in his jaw twitches. “And then what happened?”
“Okay, I know it was dumb,” I preface. “But I told the other bartender to cover for me and I followed them out. I should have gotten the manager. I know I should have. But I think I didn’treallybelieve anything would happen.”
“It wasn’t dumb,” Dave says. His expression softens as he looks at me. “You were concerned and following your instincts.” He pauses before casting a sweetly apologetic smile. “Although. It probably would have been better if you’d gotten your manager or someone else to go outside with you.”
“I know,” I agree. I return his smile with a sheepish one, wincing involuntarily as the skin over my swollen cheek pulls. “Trust me, I won’t make the same mistake again.”
“Hollis.” Dave reaches across the table and touches my hand. “Not to interrupt, but what do you think about getting some ice for your cheek? It looks like it hurts.”
Ice.Right. That could actually be helpful. “I guess that wouldn’t be a bad?—”
But before I can continue, Dave raises his hand, signaling to the waitress. There’s something in his expression that makes her hurry over instead of the leisurely stroll she took coming over to greet me.
Then again, I’m not a sexy thirty-something guy who looks like he could be in a movie. One about a hot firefighter battling a wildfire before coming home to wash off the ash and dirt in the shower, the water sluicing down his muscular chest?—
“Here,” Dave says. He holds out a towel filled with ice, somehow delivered without me realizing. “Ice your cheek for five minutes, then take five minutes off. It should help with the pain and swelling.”
As I take it from him, our fingers touch.
Electricity streaks up my arm.
My breath catches.
Wow. I’ve never had this kind of reaction just from the brush of a man’s fingers before.
Dave studies me with a furrowed brow. “Are you okay, Hollis?” He reaches across the table and strokes his thumbacross my cheek. “You know, if he hit you hard, you could have a concussion. Maybe you should?—”
But my brain shuts off for a second, and I don’t hear the rest of his sentence.
My body explodes into a chaos of sensations.
Lust. Desire. Longing.
Warmth blossoms in my chest and radiates outward. My womb clenches.
Oh, my.
No. Pull it together.
He’s just being nice.
Mistaking my silence for disapproval, Dave pulls his hand back from my cheek. “Shit. I’m sorry, Hollis.” Regret creases his features. “I shouldn’t have touched you without permission. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“No, it’s okay.” Catching his hand midway across the table, I hold it for a moment as I add, “It was nice.”
Surprise flickers in his eyes.
A beat later, heat floods my cheeks.
It wasnice?
What kind of a thing to say is that?
And what in the world do I say to fix it? To make things less awkward than I just made them?
I’ve always felt confident around men, but with Dave, I’m off balance.
As I struggle to come up with a response that doesn’t sound absolutely idiotic, lovely Dave swoops in—metaphorically, that is—and saves the day.
