“Funny how you keep landing directly in my personal space.”
“It’s a crowded bar,” he says mildly.
I glance at the bodies pressing in around us.
His grin widens, unrepentant.
“Whatever.” I turn back to the bar, jaw tight. “I wasn’t just talking about tonight. Now step back.”
He does, but only just enough to give me breathing room, still close enough that I can feel the heat of him, smell leather and the spiciness of his soap.
“I see you’re here with someone,” he says into my hair.
I stiffen.
“How’s ol’ Dick?” he asks.
I turn back slowly. “You know his name is Dixon.”
One brow lifts. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” He considers that. “Doesn’t suit him.”
I roll my eyes. “He’s good. Great actually. Sweet. Handsome. Dependable.” I emphasize every word, daring him to say something.
Instead, his mouth curves into a satisfied grin.
“What?” I snap.
He shakes his head. “You don’t like him at all.”
“And how would you know anything about what I like or don’t like?”
He studies me for a second longer than necessary, then leans in—close enough that his mouth brushes the shell of my ear.
His voice drops low, as if just for me, when he says, “Because sweet and dependable can’t fucking handle a woman like you, Stormy.”
My breath stutters.
“You need a man who can stand toe to toe with you,” he continues, voice rough, certain. “One who fights as hard as he loves. One who can stoke that fire inside of you and then be man enough to quench it.”
My heart is pounding so hard that I’m afraid he can hear it.
“And Dixon Fisher,” he finishes quietly, “ain’t that man.”
The words knock the wind clean out of me.
For a split second, I can’t even form a response. My brain is too busy replaying the way he said my name. The way his presence fills every inch of space around me.
Theo chooses that exact moment to appear, saving me from myself.
“Paloma for you,” he says, setting the glass in front of me. “And a beer.”
Waylon takes both without asking.
“Put ’em on my tab,” he tells Theo easily, already turning away.
