It doesn’t help that when Devon Cole says she’s a woman and not a lady, Morgan does a hip swivel that should be downright illegal.
The song moves onto the next verse and Morgan focuses on the thing in his hand—a broom—and starts sweeping toward me. When the song howls, he throws back his head and howls too, as does everyone else in the bar. Morgan has to grip the cowboy hat to keep it from falling off his head, and that makes his biceps bulge outrageously.
Why am I lightheaded?
He draws closer and I’m gripping the beer bottle so hard I’m surprised it doesn’t shatter. I let go and wipe both hands on my thighs. The one that wasn’t on the cool, condensed bottle is sweaty.
Morgan uses the broom like a prop, dancing with it, swaying his hips, even grinding against it, all while sweeping expertly around the legs of the barstools.
My barstool has swiveled toward Morgan of its own accord, my knees pointing to him like a compass to the North Pole. I can’t figure out where to put my eyes so they’re all over the place.
Especially because I can now see the tattoos properly. There’s a fucking snake running down the side of his ribs and I can practically feel the ridges under my tongue.
Oh no. This is bad. I squeeze my thighs together and try not to meet his eyes. I don’t know how, but Morgan is pretty goddamned confident that I’m into him, no matter how hard I’ve tried not to be.
Morgan gets to my stool. He sets the broom against the bar and, with a hand on the outside of my knee that burns me, spins me so that my back is to the bar. He follows the movement and puts his hands on either side of me, caging me in.
That’s the first time Morgan’s ever touched me. Usually we have the bulky wood bar between us, which has given me so much distance from his charm—enough distance to make it easier to deflect.
And then it’s all abs and hips and his cocky, far-too-confident-in-himself smile. I’m vaguely aware that the crowd has gotten louder, but Morgan’s quietly singing the words and that’s all I can focus on.
After what feels like too long but also not nearly long enough, Morgan pulls the hat off his head and leans back to put it between us, right over his crotch. Nothing’s changed underneath. I know that. His fly is still zipped up, the black leather belt secure, but like . . . I can’t see it and dear god, why is that hotter?
The song comes to its end. Was it always such a short song?
Morgan leans away from me, grinning, and puts his hat back on. We make eye contact and I can’t help it.
I laugh.
It’s a nervous laugh, a laugh that’s trying to expel all the flustered-up feelings inside of me. I’m embarrassed and turned on and don’t know what I do with my hands right now so they flutter somewhere near my burning face.
Flutter. My hands flutter. Before today I would have told you that was impossible.
This fucking guy. The day I first walked into this bar I thought, wow, that is the friendliest bartender I’ve ever met. He kept looking at me and I kept ignoring him.
Er, mostly ignoring him. Have I mentioned that he’s really hot? His dark blond hair is a little too long, his eyes a little too bright, his nose a little too crooked, but it all fucking works for him.
His imperfections make the whole package better.
The second time I walked into his bar, he remembered me, and his face lit up and he had a completely one-sided flirtation.
It was good, which is impressive considering I didn’t give him any ammunition.
The third time it was all over. The way he greeted me, you’d have thought I was a long-lost friend. Well, maybe not—we didn’t do the handshake he did with that other guy, but it was so familiar.
So nice to have someone happy to see me.
Morgan is standing stock-still in front of me and I’m still smiling, coming down off that embarrassing laugh.
But when I look up at him, all the humor drains out of me. He’s staring, the wide smile eroded to one side of his mouth. The teasing light is fading, the flirtiness disappearing.
I press my lips together. God damn it.
I look away before I can see the transformation end in sympathy . . . or worse.
The crowd is still loud, cheering, and I feel Morgan behind me shaking off what he saw. I sip my beer, and on my periphery, his hand reaches out to grab the broom handle.
“Look at all this shit,” he shouts over the cheering. In the mirror I watch as he raises his arms. “I swept this morning, you filthy animals. Kit, grab me the dustpan.”
