It made me overly aware of my own body in a way I wasn’t used to. The seam of my jeans against my body when I moved a certain way. The pull of my t-shirt across my breasts when I straightened up. The sway of my hips I hadn’t thought about in a long time.
I sank two balls and missed a third. He sank four in a row without blinking.
When I bent for what should have been an easy shot on the eight ball, Colt stepped in close behind me.
I could feel him behind me — big and solid. Too close to be anything but deliberate. When I shifted slightly to adjust my angle, my ass brushed against the front of his jeans.
Against a very intimate part of his anatomy. A very hard, intimate part of his anatomy.
I heard his sharp intake of breath before he leaned a little closer. “Take your time.”
I took the shot.
The eight ball dropped into the corner pocket. The bar erupted.
“Charlie wins,” someone shouted, and there were cheers and someone bought a round. Through it all, Colt just stood there watching me with those dark, hungry eyes. Not celebrating. Not leaving either.
“Looks like Charlie gets her repairs,” Sutton grinned at his brother.
“Looks like,” Colt said, his voice steady, unreadable. His usual contained self. Which was starting to make me want to do something reckless just to crack it open. Men who kept everything that still were either very boring or very dangerous. I was already pretty sure Colt McAllister wasn’t boring.
The crowd thinned out slowly. Last call came and went, and eventually it was just the two of us and his brothers. Grant left first, followed by Sutton. He slapped Colt on the back and gave me a wink. Then the door swung shut and we were alone.
I flipped the sign to closed.
When I turned around, Colt was still at the bar.
“You know,” I said, walking back toward him because apparently I had no sense of self-preservation, “most people leave at last call.”
“Most people aren’t me.”
“No.” I stopped on the other side of the bar, facing him. “They definitely aren’t.” I picked up a glass and set it down again, unable to concentrate on the closing routine. “Six weeks, Colt. Every Friday. You barely drink the beer I serve you. So why?”
“Maybe I like the atmosphere.”
“Bullshit.”
Something flickered in his eyes — amusement, maybe. “You really want to know?”
“I really want to know.”
He was quiet for a long time. “Because you’re the first person in years who looks at me like I’m a man instead of something to be afraid of.”
The honesty caught me off guard.
“People are afraid of you,” I said carefully.
“Yeah.”
“Should I be?”
He studied my face. “Probably.”
“But you’re not going to tell me why.”
“Not tonight.”
I held his gaze. “Okay. Then let me ask you something else.” I leaned against the bar. “That bet. If you’d won — if I’d lost — what would you have asked for? Really.”
