by Lexi Ryan
She wrinkles her nose as if my words smell bad. “Someone like me? What’s that supposed to mean?” She doesn’t sound offended, just baffled.
“Young, carefree, the type of girl who . . .” My eyes drop to the swell of her cleavage at the top button on her flannel. I’m trying not to look at the black lace of her bra that’s peeking out there, but it’s taking more self-control than I’m interested in commanding tonight. “No responsibilities. The world is your oyster.”
“Unlike you, then, huh? What are you, seventy? Did you just age spectacularly well?”
I swallow hard. “I feel ancient some days, but my wild and crazy days are behind me.”
She shakes her head. “I don’t think I’ve ever been wild and crazy. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with me. Coming here was the most impulsive thing I’ve ever done in my life.”
“Coming to the bar?”
“No, to Jackson Harbor. I just . . .” The pink in her cheeks blooms and morphs into a flush that creeps all the way down her neck. Her skin reminds me of the petals on the white roses in front of Mom’s house—soft, perfect, and calling for my touch. “I want to start over.”
“What’s stopping you?”
The flush from her cheeks races down her neck. If I followed the color with my fingertips, it would lead me to the swell of her breasts.
The persistent direction of my thoughts surprises me. I appreciate looking at a beautiful woman, but I don’t typically gawk and let my imagination get away from me. Maybe my brothers are right and my virtually nonexistent sex life is starting to affect my brain. I’m overdue to scratch an itch, but I already know I can’t do that with this girl. She’s too sweet and doesn’t strike me as the one-night-stand type. Hell, her admission that she’s never done anything wild or crazy is practically an admission that she’s not. But even as I think it, I’m in no hurry to leave her side.
Ava returns and drops a plate of deep-fried appetizers on the bar in front of Nic and me. She gives me the stink-eye as she says, “Don’t you dare think about leaving this bar with her until she’s eaten something.”
I meet Ava’s eyes and nod. Regardless of what she might think of me, I understand what she’s saying and respect her for wanting Nic to sober up before making decisions she might regret.
Nic’s eyes go wide as she looks at the food. “Do you have any idea how long it’s been since I’ve had fried food?” She bites her knuckle then looks at me. “Am I drooling? It smells so good that I’m afraid I might be.”
I chuckle. “Well, if you’re going to indulge, Jake’s cheese balls are where you should start. That’s goat cheese rolled in a homemade batter, deep-fried, and then drizzled with honey.”
“Seriously?” She’s so captivated by the food in front of her that I feel actual jealousy toward a fucking fried ball of cheese.
I wave to the plate. “After you, then.” I wait as she pops a cheese ball in her mouth, and then I’m enthralled by the sight of her chewing and swallowing. Her eyes close, and I think she might have moaned.
“I’m never dieting again if this is what I’ve been missing.” She shakes her head. “Never again.”
I love that she’s not afraid to eat in front of me. I love that she enjoys food. Suddenly, I want to feed her. Not just Jake’s notoriously greasy fare, but lobster from the wharf, crab legs dipped in butter, the tiramisu from Jordan’s Inn.
There’s a spot of honey on her bottom lip, and her tongue darts out to catch it. She stops with a second cheese ball halfway to her mouth. “Do you always look at girls the way you’re looking at me?”
“How am I looking at you?”
Her pink cheeks flare brighter. Christ. “Like . . . like I’m your dinner.”
Behind the bar, Jake freezes in the middle of pouring a beer, then he puts the glass down and folds over in a full-on belly laugh. Asshole.
I’m saved from answering when her phone buzzes. She digs it out of her purse and fumbles with the screen, entering her passcode twice before it unlocks. As she reads whatever message was waiting for her, it’s almost like watching her transform into a different person. Her smile falls away, and all that bubbly energy dissipates.
She puts the phone back into her purse and avoids my gaze. “Excuse me,” she whispers. Then she slides off her stool and disappears into the crowd.
Ethan
Am I supposed to go after her? Jesus. I don’t even know her, but she’s been drinking and I think she was here alone. It’s not really my business if she left, but I can’t help but worry.
If I could just stop thinking about the sadness behind her smile . . .
It’s the sadness that gets me. It’s what draws me in, what makes me curious, and what makes me want to stay the fuck away. I turn my back to the bar so I can ignore Jake watching me. The crowd is thinning a bit, but there’s still no sign of Nic. If she was just using the restroom, she’d be back by now.
She’s not coming back, and I need to accept that and get my ass home.
When I turn to set my glass down, I find Ava standing in front of me with folded arms and a disappointed scowl. “What did you say to the new girl?”
I frown. “Nothing. She got a text message and left.”
“You didn’t ask where she was going?”
“She didn’t really give me the chance.”
“Men,” she mutters. She shakes her head before meeting my eyes again. “She’s in the bathroom. Pretty upset.” She shrugs. “But I guess it’s only your job to hand the drunk girl more tequila, not to check on her when shit goes down.”
I flinch. Ava’s known for being a ballbuster, but only when guys deserve it. I’ve never had the pleasure of having her disapproval directed at me. “What’s wrong with her?”
I get another classic Ava eye-roll. She reaches under the counter and hands me a magnetic sign. “Just go check on her.”
Fuck. I have to do something. I push away from the bar and weave my way through the crowd to the women’s restroom. There’s a line, but I step to the front of it and stick my head inside the men’s room. “Anybody in here?” When there’s no response, I close the door and cover the Men’s sign with the magnet that reads Women’s. “There you go, ladies! This is now the women’s restroom. The other one’s closed.”
There are a few grumbles, but the line shifts to the other door. My sister, Shay, thinks the need for the sign is hilarious. She’s never hesitated to use the men’s room before waiting in line for the women’s, but most women aren’t like my sister.
I weave my way around the line to step into the women’s room. There are two women washing their hands at the sink who frown at my intrusion, but I smile as if I visit the women’s room all the time. When they finish, I close the door behind them and lock it. I go to the last stall—the only one still closed—and put my hand on the door. “Nic?”
She sniffles. “Yeah?”
Jesus. I never intended to spend my night in the bathroom talking a strange woman down from some sort of emotional breakdown. What the fuck do I think I’m doing? “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine. Just . . .” She draws in a shaky breath. “I’m just having a bad day.” The lock slides open, and I move to the side as she steps out of the stall, her mascara smeared down her face, her eyes so damn sad.
And fuck, it’s not my problem, I don’t know her, and I’m probably the world’s biggest fool for thinking I can fix this, but I know there’s no way I can walk away from her tonight without trying.
“Oh, hell,” she mutters. She sweeps past me and puts her purse on the counter while she runs the water hot. She grabs paper towels from the dispenser on the wall, wets them, and washes her face. When the worst of the makeup streaks are gone, she looks at me in the mirror.
Helplessly, I tuck my hands into my pockets, because I don’t know what else to do with them. I lean against the bathroom stall. “You want to talk about it?”
With a slow exhale, she turns, then hoists herself up on the counter. “I do.
But I don’t.”
“Did somebody hurt you?” My gut knots with the question. You can’t save her, Ethan.
“You could say that.”
I step forward. Maybe that’s why she’s here on this impulsive visit to Jackson Harbor. Maybe she’s running from someone, escaping a home that’s not safe. “Do you have somewhere safe to go?”
“It’s not that kind of hurt,” she whispers. She swallows, and her gaze dips to my mouth. “Why are you so sad?”
Because you remind me of Elena. Because I couldn’t walk away from her either. “I’m just worried about you.” I don’t know if I step closer or if gravity pulls me that way, but in a breath, she’s at my fingertips and my thighs brush her knees.
“Will you do me a favor?” she asks, her attention still on my lips.
“What?”
“Will you kiss me?”
“Nic . . .” I wait for the excuses to find their way onto my tongue, but they don’t, and I realize I don’t want an excuse to walk away from her. My whole body is warm and my fingers itch to touch her. The only thing I want is my mouth on hers. I want to taste her joy and sadness. I want to know how it feels to have that body pressed against mine.
I’m silent a beat too long, and she winces. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be. It’s not that I don’t want to, but you’re vulnerable.”
“Are you always so noble?”
“If you think my thoughts are noble right now, you’re even more naïve than I feared.” I lean my forehead against hers. Christ. Who am I kidding? She’s asking me to do something I’ve been thinking about since I first laid eyes on her. I couldn’t deny her if I wanted to, and I don’t want to. Not even a little.
I cup her face in my hand and run my thumb along her jaw.
She slides a hand behind my neck. “I like the way you look at me. You make me feel sexy. Wanted.”
“Who made you feel like you weren’t?”
“A mistake.”
“Then he didn’t deserve you.” I lower my mouth to hers, telling myself the kiss will be brief, that I won’t get carried away. But then her other hand joins the first behind my neck, and her breasts press against my chest. Her thighs part, and I step between them in my instinctive need to be closer. A soft moan slips from her lips as our mouths connect.
This girl kisses like she does everything else—with unabashed emotion. She doesn’t hide a thing she’s feeling, and I’m hard even before her mouth opens under mine and our tongues sweep across each other.
I thread one hand into her hair and slide the other up her bare leg, my fingers curling into the flesh of her hip while my thumb strokes her inner thigh. Her skirt is bunched around her waist, and it would be so easy to follow this soft skin up and find her panties. She’s making the sexiest sounds, and I’m dying to touch her, to find out if she’s as turned on as she sounds, but I keep my hand where it is and give her the kiss she asked for. I offer the evidence that she’s sexy and desirable, no matter what some asshole made her think.
She’s the one who breaks the kiss. Eyes closed, she leans her forehead against my shoulder, her body rocking as her breathing slows.
Still too tempted to explore the soft skin at the apex of her thighs, I pull my hand away and place it on the counter by her hip. She lifts her head, and her gaze follows my hand. Is she looking at my bare ring finger? I came here straight from the hospital and I don’t wear it at work—I wash my hands all day long and it gets in the way. For the first time since Elena slid that band on my finger, I have a moment when I’m glad to not have it. That moment is immediately followed by a sharp pang of guilt.
I don’t want to forget my wife or pretend she never existed. If I thought touching this woman would make me forget Elena or my grief on any level, I’d walk away. I don’t want to forget. I don’t deserve to. “It’s late. Can I get you a cab?”
She shakes her head. “I walked. My hotel is close.”
There’s no way I’m letting her walk there alone. Her encounter with John proves she’s a creep magnet. Add the tequila and emotional vulnerability to that equation—and the way she just kissed me like her life depended on it—and I know I won’t rest unless I see with my own eyes that she’s safely locked in her room.
“Let me walk you.” I tilt her face up until she meets my eyes.
“It’s not far,” she says. “I’ll be okay.”
“It’s late and you’re . . .”
“Drunk?” She laughs, then shakes her head.
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“What were you going to say, then?”
You’re too fucking beautiful for your own good. “You’re new here. But yeah, you have been drinking.”
“There’s nothing like a good cry to kill a girl’s buzz.”
“Either let me walk you or get you a cab.”
She meets my eyes, and I see the indecision on her face. That’s good. I’d be worried if she immediately agreed to walk in the dark with a complete stranger. “Okay,” she says. “A couple of questions?”
“Shoot.”
“Your name might be a nice place to start—if there’s a way you can give it to me without the mating ritual.”
Jesus. I was two seconds away from having my hand between her legs, and she doesn’t know my name. I forgot I didn’t give it to her earlier. “I feel like the ‘mysterious stranger’ thing is working for me. I’d hate to lose that advantage so early in the night.” She laughs, and I smile. I like her laugh. A lot. “I’m joking.”
She shakes her head and holds her hand to my lips before I can say more. “You’re right. I only need a mysterious stranger tonight. No names.”
“But I already know yours.”
She shrugs. “Call me but love and I’ll be new baptized.”
The line from Elena’s favorite play is like a punch to the gut. “Do you always walk around quoting Shakespeare?”
“Only Romeo and Juliet.” Jesus. She has layers beneath her layers, and I want to learn about each one.
“What else do you need to know about me before I walk you home?”
“Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” she asks, but the question comes with a smile that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.
I shake my head. “Can’t say that I have.”
“And are you just hanging out with me tonight because you’re trying to hide the fact that you’re gay?”
I laugh—something I’ve done so rarely in the last three years that it feels foreign coming from my lips. “I’m a little offended that you feel the need to ask after that kiss.” She only shrugs. “I promise you I’m not gay, but if I were, I’d still want to make sure you got home okay.”
“I have a bad track record with men. The fact that you kissed me means you’re either gay, married, or have irredeemable character flaws.”
“Oh, I definitely do. I’m an asshole, remember?”
“That’s what you said, but I haven’t seen any evidence to support that claim yet.” She sighs and rolls back her shoulders as if bracing herself for something. “A cab is unnecessary. It’s only a couple of blocks. You can walk me.”
I take her hand to help her off the counter, and the front of her body brushes mine as she stands.
“Thanks,” she whispers. She looks up at me through dark lashes, and I freeze for a beat, fighting the temptation to dip my head and taste those sweet lips again. But I’m not sure I could stop there, and it would take me no time at all to have her against the counter again, my hand up her skirt while I discovered her sweet spots. I resist and release her hand.
When we exit the bathroom, curious eyes follow us to the front door, where I grab my trench coat off a hook. “Which one’s yours?”
She shakes her head. “I don’t have one.”
I blink at her. “It’s thirty degrees outside.”
She shrugs. “I’ll be fine.”
I hold mine open. “Here. Wear this.”
“No, you don’t have to do t
hat.”
“My mother taught me to be a gentleman. Don’t make me disappoint her.”
She smiles and lets me help her into the coat. The wool trench hits her mid-shin and is almost big enough to wrap around her twice, but she looks adorable. “Thank you,” she says softly.
“Where are you staying?” I ask when we reach the sidewalk.
“The Tiffany Hotel on Fourth and White Bank. I think it’s . . .” She spins in a full circle before stopping and pointing in the direction of Second. “That way.”
I take her by the shoulders and turn her a one-eighty to face in the direction of Fourth. “I think you mean that way.”
She worries her bottom lip between her teeth, then nods. “I guess I’m glad you’re walking me.”
There’s a bite in the air, and her nose turns pink as we walk. “I take it you’re not from Michigan if you didn’t think to bring a coat,” I say, as if her Southern accent didn’t give it away.
“I’m from a little town in Alabama called Jeffe.” She wraps her arms around herself and shivers. “I don’t think I’m cut out for Michigan. The cold cuts right through me.”
“With the right clothes and some time, you’ll adjust. It gets pretty nasty come February, but a couple of winters here, and thirty degrees feels balmy.”
At the corner, we wait for the light and cross Third, and we’re at her hotel far too quickly for my liking. The front lights of the old Victorian glow, illuminating the porch that stretches the length of the front of the house. It appears this is one of the many homes in this area of town that have been restored and converted into a small hotel. Places like this usually have half a dozen rooms and no night staff or kitchen—more like a B&B than a hotel. A lot of the old neighborhood near downtown is like this—catering to tourists who visit Jackson Harbor for its small-town charm and don’t want to stay in a chain hotel.
On the front porch, Nic fishes her keys from her purse. She only fumbles a bit as she unlocks and opens the door and steps inside before turning back to me. “My room’s on the second floor.”
