“And both of those events coming so close together…I don’t know, I guess I lost confidence in my judgment. So, I figured I could trust my girlfriend to help me out, right? Honestly, I may have been drinking when I agreed.”
He laughs. “I’m sorry about your breakup. The guy’s obviously an idiot.”
I laugh, like, genuinely laugh, and it feels good. “Thank you. I think so too.”
“Have you been on a blind date before?”
“Honestly, I try to avoid them.”
“Me too.”
“I know, right?” I fiddle with the purse on my lap. “Blind dates are so nerve-wracking. But what about you? How come you’re here?”
He jams his hand through his sexy hair, and I fight—likereallyfight—the urge not to do it myself. I have to honest-to-God sit on my damn hands, or I would be caressing his thick head of hair right now.
“Honestly? I lost a bet.”
I burst out laughing. “Sounds like an interesting bet.”
“It involved roping a dummy steer, something a guy from coastal Maine doesn’t typically have a lot of experience with. And going up against an actual cowboy, I didn’t stand a chance.”
I’m still laughing. “Oh my God, I guess you won’t make that kind of a bet again.”
“I would have said absolutely not,” he says, and the cutest dimple appears on his left cheek. “But then I wouldn’t have met you. So now I’m thinking I may have won that bet after all.”
I take my hands out from under my legs and clasp them in my lap. Then, I start to fidget. Because…damn.
This guy may come off rough around the edges, but he’s so…complimentary. And thoughtful. And the biggest thing? He seemssincere.
Right then, I decide I’m going to sleep with him.
Tonight.
I never make spur-of-the-moment decisions like this.
But I am tonight.
The reason? It’s complicated. And yet so simple.
I like him.
I look closely at Michael. “You’re serious? You think you won the bet? You barely know me.”
He surprises the hell out of me when, instead of giving me some cheesy line, he nods. “That’s true. But I want to know about you. So tell me. I’ve got all night.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Michael
Emery’s hands freeze on her lap, and she blushes. “I’m not exactly the kind of woman most guys want to know more about.”
“Why do you say that?”
Pain cuts across her face, and I resist the urge to ask who hurt her.
“I’m not exactly a pin-up model. So for a blind date, I’m not a guy’s fantasy.”
“That’s definitely not true,” I assure her. “I can promise you that every guy in here is jealous as hell I’m sitting here with you.”
