She was staring at me.
A thrill steals through me.
A tourist, for certain. The only type of woman I want anything to do with. They don't know my history, the story of my dad. They don't pity me, or feel bad for me, the way the local single women do. They don't know about my time competing in the Olympics, or my gold medal. Tourists are safe. Never a chance I'll have to dip below the surface with them.
I offer her a small smile, tentative. Her eyebrows lift, the corners of her lips turned up playfully.
Blood courses through my veins, hot and heavy. It's been a long damn time since I was with a woman, in any capacity. It would be nice to spend time with a female who isn't my sister, mom, or aunt. Or my employees. Or Penn's wife, Daisy.
A simple date is all I'm after.
Her gaze remains planted on me, only three-fourths of her face visible because of the angles of our tables. She looks expectant, waiting for me to approach. Inviting me with her eyes, her fingertips drumming the tabletop like she's counting the seconds.
I push back from my table, the scrape of my chair competing with the soft rock playing over the small restaurant's speakers. A group of four older men walk in, followed by four older women. Their lively conversations fill the space. Good. I don't need Margaret eavesdropping on whatever it is I'm about to say to this woman. Which is what, exactly? I don't know. My brain sifts through options, rapid fire, but in the end it's she who speaks first.
"I hope the story about you peeing on a cactus didn't happen recently." Her lips curve, more flirtatious smirk than smile.
I laugh. A genuine laugh I wasn't expecting, shaking my head. I round her table, stopping when I'm on the other side. It's the first time I've seen her full-on, and she's dazzling. Deep brown eyes to match her hair, full and rosy cheeks, plump lips slicked with red lipstick.
"Yesterday," I say, and her eyes widen. "Kidding," I add. She huffs a relieved laugh, hand pressing at the front of her top. The fabric is red, to match her lips. And her nails.
I offer a hand over a plate empty but for the crusts of the bread. "Hugo De la Vega."
She shakes my hand, and for the shortest second I get the feeling she already knows my name. Something in her eyes. The brief look of knowing disappears, and maybe itwas never there. Maybe I'm paranoid. Used to women in this town knowing who I am, because of my family. Summerhill. My father. Tragedy.
Her delicate hand nestles in mine, palm warm and soft. "Mallory Hawkins."
The blip of unease dissipates. Of course she doesn't know who I am. "It's nice to meet you, Mallory. May I take this seat?"
"Please," she answers, voice smooth and supple, honey over warm bread.
I pull out the leather-topped stool, settling in. The edge of the table meets my sternum.
Why did she choose a pub table when she had the choice of the place?
"So, Mallory, what brings you to Olive Township?"
She shakes her head at me, a twinkle gleaming in her deep brown eyes. "You can do better than that."
My teeth capture the inside of my lower lip to keep from laughing. "Sorry," I say, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck. I don't embarrass easily, but I'm finding my neck warming beneath my palm. "I'm out of practice."
Her pleased look tells me she likes that. "I prefer that over a man who says the right thing too easily."
I open my mouth to say something,anything, but my ability to think has left my body.
There's no way she'll believe me if I say she's so pretty it's robbed me of my ability to think. Somehow I don't think that's any better than asking her what's brought her to my small town, even if it's the truth.
I glance down at my forearms, noting a smear of dried dirt. "Do you see this?" I point at the mess on my skin.
She nods, gaze roaming my arm.
"I spent the morning pruning olive trees. Have you ever done something like that?"
She tucks a lock of that thick, gorgeous hair behind her ear. "Can't say I have. Honestly, I didn't know pruning olive trees was a thing."
"Like any other plant, olive trees require care. I take care of them, and they reward me with the best olive oil in the southwest."
She toys with the chain of her gold necklace. "You're an olive farmer?" Her tone conveys genuine interest, and honestly, that excites me.
