I didn’t move. I couldn’t. She was warm, real, and smelled like coffee and apple pie. I could feel every soft curve of her pressed against me and had absolutely no defense against it. None.
Her body was lush and full and warm against mine, every generous inch of her fitting against me like the universe had made a mistake putting us this close together. The heavy curve of her hips was pressed against my thighs. Her chest rose and fell against mine. She was so damn soft everywhere I was hard, and the feel of all that warmth and weight undid something in my chest that I’d had locked down for years. I wanted to pull her closer. I wanted to bury my face in her hair and breathe her in and let myself pretend, just for a second, that I had any right to hold something this good.
For a second, the too old and too damaged part of my brain went silent.
“I know.” My voice came out wrecked. I was still pressed against her, both palms now flat on the roof of her car, and I couldn’t make myself move back yet. “How do you know my name?”
She got a shy look on her face as if I had discovered a dirty little secret, but she tossed her head with a touch of defiance. “I asked.”
“Mmm.” I continued to stare down at her. If she was interested enough to find out my name, could she interested in getting to know me better? My body was pressed hard against hers and the flashback had already faded. If I leaned down—
Her hands were now moving against my chest. When her fingertips brushed against a nipple, I had to bite back a groan. “My name is Keely.”
“I know.” I paused for a second. “I asked around too.”
I’d asked about her schedule. Her family. Whether there was a man who drove her home at night.
“Oh.” Her mouth formed that perfect little round shape that had me wanting to bend down and find out exactly how she tasted. I wanted to find out if she was as responsive as she was stubborn.
I finally forced myself to step back, the sudden distance feeling like a physical ache. I opened her door, my movements stiff, but then so was my body.
“Lock the doors,” I said, my jaw so tight it hurt.
She got in, looking up at me through the window with an unshielded curiosity that was far dangerous. I stood there until her taillights disappeared around the curve, my hands still twitching for a weapon I didn’t have and a girl I couldn’t keep.
Years separated us, and about a hundred other things that had nothing to do with age. But as I watched her drive away, I knew I was done pretending I could stay away.
CHAPTER TWO
Keely
The next evening, I was wiping down the same section of counter I’d wiped twenty minutes ago. I knew I was doing it, but I couldn’t stop. My head was somewhere else entirely. I stopped and touched my wrist. There wasn’t a visible mark on it today, but I could still feel the pressure of Griffin’s thumb moving across it—slow and deliberate, like he was erasing another man’s touch and replacing it with his own. That was the thing about being touched carefully by someone who looked like Griffin. Closed off and out of reach. It stayed with you.
I’d deny it under oath, but I’d spent my entire shift wondering if Griffin would come by tonight. The anticipation was a low hum under my skin, distracting me from every refill and side of ranch.
Which was ridiculous. Men like Griffin didn’t come back for women like me. They came back for the coffee, for the habit, for the quiet corner booth. I was the waitress. Convenient. Familiar. I wasn’t sleek. I was soft, carrying a heavy thickness in my thighs and a flare to my hips.
Not the kind of woman a thirty-five-year-old ex-military man with a jaw like that lost sleep over.
I’d told myself that approximately forty times since last night and I almost believed it.
The man was a walking contradiction. He looked like he could dismantle a tank with his bare hands, yet he’d stood between me and a table of frat boys like he was my own personal secret service detail.
And he was—God, he was built. I’d noticed that the first night he’d walked in and spent every shift since trying not to notice it again. The width of his shoulders. The way his hands looked wrapped around a coffee mug—large and scarred. They looked like they could break something or hold something together with equal ease. I’d had more than one moment where I’d looked at those hands and felt a pull so strong, I’d had to turn around and pretend I needed something from the back.
The man made me feel like I’d never wanted anything in my life until right now.
Maggie, the other waitress working with me tonight was closing down the coffee station. She glanced at me, a frown on her face. She was in her early forties, happily married and had lived in Lone Mountain her whole life. Just like me.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asked, a frown tugging at her mouth. “You’ve been scrubbing that same spot since nine.”
I nodded, though I wasn’t entirely sure I believed it myself. “Yeah. Just thinking about last night.”
“Mm-hum.” She folded a dish towel, unconvinced.
“I had it handled.”
“I know you did.” Maggie glanced toward the door, as if she too was expecting Griffin to walk in any minute. “But he didn’t want you to have to.”
