My dark thoughts threaten to drag me so far down I can’t see my way clear, so I push to my feet and rush down the steps to the car.
Nash
Country music spills out onto the sidewalk from the old building just east of the lake. The bouncer checks my ID, pockets the cover charge, and waves me inside. Looks like my jeans and black t-shirt weren’t a terrible choice. Though a few of the men on the dance floor look like they just stepped out of Cowboy Monthly. I don’t see any spurs or chaps, at least.
The press of people around the bar is overwhelming, so I stick to the edge of the crowd, scanning the booths for any sign of Raelynn. The whole way here, I wondered what the fuck I was doing. Going on a date? Even if this ends well—with another kiss that will feed my fantasies for days to come—I’m still fucked.
Either I fall hard and disappear on her one day without a word, or I say the wrong thing and screw up the only real connection I’ve had with a woman…ever.
Dumbass. Why would she even bother with a thirty-four-year-old man who’s never been in a serious relationship?
I know what I see in her. Raelynn is gorgeous, independent, and funny. But also sad. Lonely. Desperate for something I don’t think even she understands.
When I step around a pillar, my jaw hits the floor. She leans against a two-person booth, long, bare legs crossed at the ankles. Red cowboy boots. A floral print dress that ends only a couple of inches below her ass. Blond hair flows over one shoulder in a waterfall of wavy curls.
She reaches back for her margarita glass, and I’m mesmerized as she takes a drink, then licks a bit of salt off the rim. One foot bounces in time with the music, and I might never get the fantasy of Raelynn in those cowboy boots—and nothing else—out of my head.
Stop acting like a stalker and go talk to her.
The song ends as I approach, and the handful of folks on the dance floor applaud and high-five one another. “Hey.” I scan her face, looking for any sign of the lost, broken woman who kicked me out of her house this morning. But the spark is back in her eyes. Is it genuine? Or is she putting on a show for me—and for herself?
“About damn time.” Raelynn grabs my belt, pulls me against her, and crushes her lips to mine. The brief, hard kiss tastes like salt, tequila…and something sweet. My dick rockets to attention. If I didn’t need to know we were on solid ground first, I’d suggest we get the hell out of here right now. “What do you want?” she asks. “It’s on me.”
The urge to say I want to be on her is almost overwhelming. But that would probably get me kneed in a rather uncomfortable place, so I swallow hard and fumble for a more acceptable answer.
“Uh…well, you taste amazing, so…whatever you’re having. But it’s going to take an hour to get through that crowd.”
She winks at me. “Be right back.”
I take her place, my hip against the table, and wait. Raelynn strides to the far corner of the bar, leans in, and shouts to someone hidden behind the throngs of people. Less than two minutes later, she returns with a pair of large, pink margaritas. “Shit. How did you do that so fast? You have to tell me your secret.”
“No secret, darlin’,” she says as she takes a seat. “I know the bartender.”
Darlin’?
I slide into the booth across from her, still unable to tear my gaze from her face—even when I lift the glass to my lips. The drink is strong, a hint of watermelon mixing with the salt and tequila.
“Do you come here often?” I ask. The DJ announces the next song—and some dance step I’ve never heard of before—and more than a dozen men and women form two lines down the middle of the room.
“Once or twice a month.” Raelynn takes a long sip of her drink, her tongue flicking some of the salt off the rim. If she keeps doing that, even my tight jeans won’t be strong enough to hide how much I want her. “Have you been dancin’ before?”
“Not like that.” I’m in awe of how each person on the dance floor seems to know exactly what to do—and when—in time with the music. “There’s no way I can keep up…” I wave my hand at the perfectly coordinated steps, “with that.”
Her laugh has the power to send me to my knees. I’d do anything she asked just to see that look on her face a second time. “If you want another date, Mr. Fix-it, you’ll try.”
The single word—date—rattles around in my head until Raelynn lifts the margarita to her lips once more. The motion highlights her toned arms and the way her dress clings to her body.
I clear my throat. “Does that mean I didn’t completely fuck up this morning?”
Raelynn flinches but recovers quickly. A hint of sadness lingers in her gaze until she pops a tortilla chip into her mouth and stares at the lines of folks performing a complicated sequence of steps I’ll never be able to master.
“What happened wasn’t your fault, Nash. It was mine. But we’re not talkin’ about it tonight.” She drains the rest of her margarita and sets the glass down with enough force, the last of the salt hits the table. “Drink up. Next song, you’re dancin’ with me.”
I need a hell of a lot more liquor to move my feet like I’m supposed to. Flubbing my way through the simplest of the dances—something called the Cupid Shuffle—I bang into the guy next to me more than once before Raelynn pulls me out of the line to the back of the crowd.
“You’re gonna hurt someone. I should start callin’ you Mr. Two-Left-Feet. We’re doin’ this next one alone.” Raelynn moves directly behind me, molding her hands to my waist.
“We could go somewhere a hell of a lot more private,” I say over my shoulder. “And work on some other moves.”
