“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
He downs half his beer with an easy shrug. “It means you probably need protecting from guys like me.”
I take another drink, too, and watch him over the bottle. The alcohol warms my blood and pops the bubble of nerves that’s held tight in my stomach since I pulled up to the front of the bar. It’s easier to breathe without feeling like I’m fighting a snake trying to choke me out.
My muscles relax, and I give in to the heat coursing through me. It chips away at the shield that’s embedded in my brain—the one that refuses to let me have fun. The one who overthinks and overcomplicates everything.
“Why would I need to be protected from guys like you, Brooks?” I ask, considering removing my cardigan.It’s so hot in here.
He leans forward, his elbows on the tabletop, and peers straight into my eyes. “Because you, Dr. Van, are my weakness. And for girls like you, that’s dangerous.”
My lips fall open as I suck in a breath. I’m not sure if he means thatI’mhis weakness or if he’s talking in hypotheticals, but the intensity in his stare makes me think it’s the first.
“I don’t see why that’s a problem,” I say, bringing the bottle to my lips with a confidence I don’t quite embody. But I think I’m doing a decent job of faking it.
“It’s a problem because I’m not the kind of guy you take home to Daddy.”
A smirk touches my lips, and I pull the bottle away. My gaze stays locked on his. “Then it’s a good thing that’s not what I’m after, isn’t it?”
His teeth press into his bottom lip for a couple of seconds before he lets it pop free. “What are you saying?”
“Honestly? I don’t know.”
“Then I don’t either.”
The music volume doubles, and it’s hard to hear myself think. A part of that might be the alcohol floating around my system, but I don’t have enough experience with that to knowfor sure. All I know is that Brooks’s attention is focused solely on me, and an expectation hangs in the balance. One of us has to break the ice.
But I don’t know how. This is uncharted territory for me—this is the most flirting I’ve done in my entire life. It’s just easy with Brooks because if I say something silly, he just laughs it off and moves on. There’s no pressure … in the conversation, anyway. There’s definitely pressure between my thighs.
I drink what’s left of my beer, willing the power of the alcohol to do its thing.
If you hesitate, you’ll get hit.
The time for hesitation is over.
“That’s not true,” I say, wiping my palms down my jeans. “I know what I want.”
His eyes widen. “Oh, really?”
“I just don’t know how to say it.”
“Well, then, you have a problem, Doc.”
“Unfortunately, I know that.”
“Fortunately for you, do you know whodoesn’thave a problem?” He lifts a brow, smirking. “Me. I know exactly what you want and exactly how to say it.”
I hear every pulse of my blood through my veins and feel every drop of sweat trickle across my skin. Brooks’s cologne is amplified over the cacophony of scents in the bar, and I’m attuned to his every breath, blink, and blush. I’m clinging to the side of a cliff—one that I’ve fought tooth and nail to find—and suddenly the drop seems extremely far down.
“Say it then,” I urge.
“You don’t want to be a good girl anymore,” he says, melting me in my seat with the heat in his eyes. “You want to be bad.” He leans forward. “You want to know what it feels like to tick off every item on that delicious fantasy list of yours, but you’re scared.”
Bingo.
A rush of adrenaline hits my system like a rock, sending a surge of energy rocketing through my body. I have a decision to make, and there’s no way around it. I can either cling to the familiar and change the subject—climb back ontopof the cliff—or I can be brave and do what I really want: jump off headfirst.
“Want to help me with that?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
