One is a Promise

by Pam Godwin

  “I expected the black jacket, shit-kickers, and faded jeans.” I step close enough to feel the heat of his body. “But those dimples…”

  “If you pinch my cheeks and tell me I’m adorable, you’ll never see them again.” Amusement gleams in his eyes, but something else sifts through his gravelly voice, something dark and sinful. “Christ, your smile is beautiful.”

  “Thank you for giving it to me.”

  He gives me more than a smile. The look that follows marks the before and after in my life. The air ceases to exist, and the only thing between us is the anticipation of what is coming. In that flicker of time, with something as inconceivable as a look, he claims me, owns me, and ruins me for all others. It’s a look so defining it puts quotation marks around mine, his, us, and forever.

  My pulse pounds. My skin tingles, and a cocktail of desire circulates and multiplies in my blood. This is it, the suspended moment I will forever remember. The one that determines my ultimate happiness or demise. The pinnacle point that reveals who I am and what I want.

  He releases the chin strap of his half-helmet and lets it dangle against his neck. “You’re shivering.”

  Am I? I snap out of my daze and lift the mug to my lips. “Are you married?”

  “I will be.” Resting a leather-sleeved forearm on the gas tank, he leans in. “Does five o’clock tonight work for you?”

  I sip the coffee and hum. “Is that a proposal?”

  “It’s a foregone conclusion.” He rubs his jaw with a gloved hand. “I always wondered what you would look like.”

  “You wondered what I would look like?”

  “My forever.”

  His response triggers giggly chemicals in my brain, but I do my best to behave like a twenty-four-year-old woman.

  “I can’t tell if you’re being sincere or fucking with me.” I wish the coffee would kick in so I could keep up. “I’m leaning toward mental patient. Did you escape the hospital on your bike?”

  “Mental patient? You’re the one standing in the street, freezing your ass off, and smiling like you were waiting for me.”

  “I was waiting for you.”

  “Perfect,” he murmurs, his gaze transfixed on my mouth.

  I bounce on my toes, trying to work some blood into my iced-over muscles. “We need to talk.”

  His eyes fly to mine. “Is that right?”

  “Yep.” I roll back my shoulders. “It’s about to go down.”

  “I can’t wait.” He grins.

  “Hold this.” I hand him the mug and reach for the lapels of his motorcycle jacket.

  He lifts the coffee to his lips, watching me with curiosity as I slide down the heavy zipper and expose his black t-shirt beneath.

  Tendrils of ink snake along the side of his neck and disappear beneath the cotton that stretches across his wide chest. My fingers itch to feel the carved ridges of those pecs, so I surrender to it, flattening a palm against the cement wall of his torso and gliding over the rippling terrain of his abs.

  Broad through the shoulders, narrow at the waist, he’s all testosterone-fueled muscle wrapped in leather and denim and heat. I’m definitely going to curl up against that. For warmth, of course. Not because I’m under the hormonal influence of holy-shit-he’s-sexy.

  “You make a damn good cup of coffee.” He takes another sip, smiling around the rim as his eyes follow the movement of my hand.

  “Thank you.” I hook a leg over the bike, slide onto the wide spread of his thighs, and straddle his lap, chest-to-chest. Oh my, he’s big…everywhere.

  He doesn’t balk at my boldness, and instead balances the mug in one hand so he can wrap the heavy jacket around my back. “Better?”

  “Way better.” I sigh at the heat radiating from his shirt and grip his biceps, folding my legs around his waist and making myself at home.

  We could fuck in this position, with our chests pressed together, groins aligned, and his steel-hard thighs flexing beneath me. He only needs to pull himself out and thrust his hips. My hunger for him pulses, hot and reckless, between my legs. Such an outlandish reaction to someone I just met, yet it feels so impossibly right.

  He tucks me tight against him inside the jacket and runs his nose through my hair. “Is this how it’s going down?”

  “Depends on how you do with that talk we need to have.”

  “All right.” He chuckles, and the sound vibrates through me. “Get on with it then.”

  I tilt my head back and peer at him through my lashes. “I hear you’re trafficking drugs through my neighborhood.”

  With his face angled down and inches from mine, his gaze drifts up, ticking over the surrounding homes. “Is that the rumor in the knitting circles?”

  No doubt my neighbors are leaning over their walkers and squinting out their windows. But none of them have the eyesight to see the intimate cocoon of man and leather I’m indulging in.

  “Never underestimate a concerned citizen with a knitting needle.” I wink.

  He tips the mug back, his throat working as he drinks. The deep swallow, bouncing Adam’s Apple, and taut tanned flesh over corded muscle—it’s all so captivating. Why am I spellbound by a man’s neck? I want to sniff it. Lick it. Mark it with hickeys.

  Passing the coffee back to me, he stretches the zippered flaps tighter around my shoulders. There’s not enough room for both of us in this jacket, but his gloved hands span over the bare skin of my lower back, minimizing heat loss.

  “Tell your concerned citizens,” he says, “they’re welcome to search my person anytime they want.”

  I’ll be the only one searching his…everything. “They won’t go near you. Something to do with your habit of running over old people.”

  “Why did the old lady cross the road?”

  I laugh, startled at the absurdity of the question. “To get to the other side?”

  “One would think. But the old lady in question crossed the street to beat me with a rolled-up newspaper as I rode by. Lucky for her, I have ninja reflexes and avoided a collision.”

  Eeesh. That sounds like Virginia. She’s a shit-stirrer, which is why I don’t take her complaints seriously. But if I ever want to sleep in again, he needs to find a new route to wherever he goes at six in the morning.

  “Where do you live?” I reach for the lip of the half-helmet, dying to see his hair.

  “Renting a house a few blocks away on Lemona.” He nods behind him and lifts his gaze to my hovering hand. “Go ahead. Take it off.”

  I remove the helmet and widen my eyes at the skin-fade hairstyle. Clipped close on the sides, it could almost be a military cut, but the thick brown strands on top are long enough to suggest his hair would be wavy if he let it grow.

  “Going for the Marine look?” Juggling the helmet and the mug between us, I run a hand over the softly sheared hair above his ear.

  His eyelids grow heavy, and he leans into my touch. “Something like that.”

  Does that mean he’s military?

  I position the helmet back on his head, straightening the straps against his chiseled jawline. “Where do you go every morning?”

  “Work.” He points his chin in the direction of the city behind me. “Downtown.”

  There aren’t any large military bases in St. Louis, but I ask anyway. “Armed forces?”

  “Non-intelligence agency. Boring government worker.”

  I have a hard time imagining that. “Desk job?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “And you cut through this neighborhood because it’s quicker?”

  “Yup.” His eyes stay on me, penetrating in their perusal.

  “If you jump over to Mackenzie, it might add like…thirty seconds to your drive. It’s a main drag, so you won’t be stirring up quiet little neighborhoods, and more importantly, I’ll be able to sleep in. Would you be willing to do that?”

  “Only if you say yes.” His dimples deepen.

  “Say yes to what?”

  “Whatever I want.” Gruff
and thick, his voice electrifies the currents pinging between us.

  “That sounds dangerous.” And gloriously naughty. “How about we start with a date?”

  “We can call it anything you like.” He pulls me closer in the circle on his arms, crushing the coffee mug between us.

  “There’s eleven things you should know before dating me,” I say.

  “Eleven?”

  “No more. No less.” I’m making this shit up as I go.

  He laughs with delight twinkling in his eyes. “Okay, lay them on me.”

  I gather a deep breath, as if preparing to give a long-winded speech. I’m playing with him. Stalling him, if I’m honest. He doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, and despite the chill creeping over my exposed legs, I don’t want him to leave.

  “I can’t walk past a mirror,” I say, “without checking myself out.”

  “As beautiful as you are—”

  “It’s not vanity.” Though the compliment has me beaming. “It’s a matter of professional growth. Dancers live, breathe, and thrive by watching their reflections.”

  “Ah.” He glances at my thighs where they hook around his waist. “That explains why you’re so fucking fit.”

  “Straight-up cardio, all day, every day.” I finish off the last swallow of lukewarm coffee. “Your turn.”

  “I didn’t realize I was participating.”

  “Tell me eleven things I need to know. Feel free to start with the most scandalous ones first.”

  His smile is infectious. “I have a huge appetite. For food and other things.”

  “I exercise for a living, which means I’m always hungry. For food and other things.”

  He groans. “I’m ready to start that date now.”

  “You haven’t heard the rest.” I cock my head. “The next thing you should know is the only movie genre that exists is Dirty Dancing.”

  “That’s not a genre.”

  I arch a brow.

  “Okay, I get it,” he says. “There’ll be no discussions about what we watch on movie night.”

  “Unless Dancing with the Stars or So You Think You Can Dance is on. Those take precedence.”

  He shakes his head, smiling. “I can live with that, if you can live with my mode of transportation.”

  I crane my neck to peer at the sexy lines of the Harley we’re straddling. “What if it’s snowing?”

  “We stay in bed.”

  Well, damn. I press my grin against his chest. I’ve been smiling so hard and so long my cheeks hurt. Who knew an unexpected moment with a stranger could be so agreeable. I want to pour this feeling into a fireproof box and keep it under my pillow.

  “Give me another one,” he says.

  “I have a tendency to break out in dance.” I wriggle on his lap. “Anywhere. Anytime. If there’s an opportunity for spontaneous dancing—in the supermarket, at a bar, on the toilet, you better be prepared.”

  “This, I have to see.” His gloved thumb strokes the skin along my spine, making me shiver. “You should know I’m not a good dancer.”

  “That’s my job. As long as you have rhythm and you’re not afraid to let loose, we’ll get along just fine.” I tilt up my chin and sink into his warm brown gaze. “I own a crapload of beauty products and clothes. My spare room overflows with dance costumes I can’t part with, stockings of every color and style, beaded bras, double-sided tape, false lashes, dance shoes… You get the idea. Dressing up is my job, so don’t expect me to give up a drawer for your sleepovers, because it ain’t happening.”

  His lips bounce between mirth and contemplation. “I don’t wear underwear.”

  Oh, sweet Jesus. If I dipped my finger down the back of his jeans, would I slide right into his crack? I might be on the extreme side of outgoing, but I should probably wait for our date before playing with his butt cleavage.

  “I don’t share,” he whispers.

  “I don’t cheat,” I whisper back. “But there’s no place for jealous cavemen in my line of work. I dance with guys. Wear skimpy clothing around guys. Shake my ass in rooms filled with guys. Can you deal?”

  He groans and slides his cheek against mine. “I’ll deal.”

  We continue our back-and-forth conversation, and I lose count of how many things we share about ourselves. He admits to being a mercurial hothead, a workaholic, and an opponent of alcoholic beverages that require a corkscrew, while I express my love for stretching, body massages, and all things Beyoncé.

  “As far as corkscrews are concerned,” I say, “I love a late-night glass of vino, but I’m all for the screw-cap, economy-jug variety.”

  “You’re adorable.”

  “So are your dimples.”

  He sighs, and the sexy hollows in his cheeks fade away. “I have to go to work.”

  I don’t like it, but I knew it was coming. Untangling my legs from his waist, I prepare to brave the cold.

  “Ask me to stay.” He touches a knuckle beneath my chin.

  So tempting, but I need to process. Alone. I’ve never climbed onto a stranger’s lap and flirted like a crazy person. It calls for analysis of feelings and sanity. Maybe some meditation for good measure.

  I lean up and hover my mouth a kiss away from his. “Anticipation,” I whisper, “heightens the pleasure.”

  His entire body goes hard against me, but he doesn’t close the gap between our lips. “I hear the same applies to trouble.”

  Trouble heightens pleasure? With him, I believe it. “Are you trouble?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Then come back tonight.”

  I pull away, and his mouth chases mine.

  “Tonight.” With a hand on his chest, I stop his advance.

  The frigid air creeps in as I slip off the bike and walk backward across my front yard.

  “Tonight,” he says, holding my gaze.

  It’s almost painful to continue my retreat, but I’m hopeful about seeing him again. Somewhere between a smile and a name, I let myself imagine a future filled with deep brown eyes and seductive dimples.

  As I reach for the front door, he calls after me, “Mrs. Hartman.”

  Hartman? That must be his last name.

  “Yes, Mr. Hartman?” I glance over my shoulder.

  “I need a first name to accompany the thoughts that will distract me all day.”

  “Danni.” I open the front door and lean against the doorframe. “Yours?”

  “Cole.” He buckles the helmet strap beneath his jaw.

  “See you tonight, Cole Hartman.”

  The motorcycle sputters with a vibrating growl, and he watches me, smiling, until I step inside and shut the door.

  I rest my forehead against the wood, replaying every second of my introduction to Cole Hartman.

  And I grin.

  The moment has come to an end, and I know it’s just the beginning.

  I wake from a deep sleep with the sensation of someone watching me. I must’ve overworked myself dancing last night, because it takes a helluva lot of effort to lift my face from the pillow. Or maybe it was all the wine I drank. Body cramps. Pounding head. Cotton mouth. Yeah, I need coffee.

  Dragging my eyes open, I groan at the sunlight exploding through my bedroom window. There’s no one in view, but the heavy breathing behind me suggests whoever is in my room isn’t trying to be stealthy about it.

  I roll over and come face to face with huge brown eyes.

  Standing beside my bed, my niece tucks her chin to her chest and glares at me from beneath thick lashes. After my run-in last night with Trace Savoy and the subsequent bottle of wine, I’m not equipped to deal with a four-year-old demon named Angel.

  Worse is the off-tune drone of my sister’s humming in the kitchen. The interrogation awaits.

  Maybe I should steal back the house key she stole from me. Or change the locks.

  I narrow my eyes at Angel. Long black curls, rosy cheeks, and a dark complexion inherited from her Hispanic father, she’s the prettiest little girl I’ve eve
r seen. That is, when she’s not speaking.

  “It’s creepy to watch people sleep,” I mumble.

  She lifts a tiny shoulder, and I swear a mischievous smirk lurks behind those doll-like lips.

  “Why don’t you run along and get Aunt Danni a cup of coffee?” I tuck the pillow beneath my throbbing head.

  “Jesus hates you.” Angel blinks, expressionless.

  “Did he tell you this himself?”

  “This is God’s house.”

  “Actually, it’s my house, and I work hard for the money that pays for it.”

  “It’s God’s money.”

  “Do you even know what that means?”

  She turns toward the door and bends at the waist. “Toot this.” A farting noise sprays from her mouth, and she races from the room.

  Birth control. That’s what this is. If my bighearted, grade-school-teaching sister can give birth to the spawn of the devil, God knows what I would produce. Call me selfish, but I’m not even tempted to find out. I have a ten-year IUD to make sure of it.

  Of course, I need to have sex to get pregnant in the first place.

  Still wearing the booty shorts from last night, I throw my legs over the side of the bed and follow the aroma of sizzling grease into the kitchen.

  “You look like ass.” Bree smiles and shoves a mug of coffee at me.

  “Thank you.” I sip the creamy beverage and sigh. “For the coffee, not the comment.”

  “Eggs are almost done.” She turns back to the stove.

  She’s not here to cook me breakfast. She wants the scoop on the date, and I’m surprised she hasn’t asked yet.

  Dressed in her usual gear—baggy gym shorts, tank top, hair in a high ponytail, complete with an elastic headband—she takes her role as a soccer coach’s wife seriously. Eighteen months younger than me, she shares my height, build, facial features…everything. Only she’s darker. Darker complexion—fake bake. Darker hair—L’Oreal No.5. If she embraced her naturally pale skin and blonde hair, we’d pass as twins.

  “You didn’t get the D last night.” Gray eyes—same as mine—squint at me over her shoulder.