“I don’t recall that we have.”
“We should. It’s remarkable.” I put my nose in her hair and smelled her again. Her scent went straight to my head, like a shot of good whiskey. “I read once that our sense of smell is directly connected to the limbic system.”
“The oldest part of the brain,” June said, her voice breathy.
“The primitive part of the brain.” Since she wasn’t moving away, I took another deep breath. God, she smelled good.
It was about then that I remembered we weren’t alone. Jonah stood in the doorway to the kitchen and Cassidy was still on the steps. Both were staring at us, open-mouthed.
I kept my attention on June. “Shall we?”
“Yes.”
I offered my arm, but she hesitated, drawing her eyebrows together and looking at me with confusion. I grabbed her hand and tucked it into the crook of my elbow.
“Oh. Right.”
Her hand was small against my arm, her fingernails cut short and unpolished. She was as natural as a woman came, this one, and I loved that about her. No games. No agenda. So different from the women who’d always surrounded us when I played football.
I tipped my chin to Jonah and Cassidy. “Have a good evening.”
“Night, you two,” Cassidy said with a smile. She wiggled her fingers at her sister.
I led June to my car and opened the passenger side door, closing it after she got in. She sat with her back stiff, her hands clasped in her lap. I couldn’t quite tell if she was nervous, or if that was just how June sat when she was in a car.
She’d relaxed quickly enough when we’d danced last night. Feeling her melt into me as we’d swayed to the music had been enormously gratifying. I could tell June was going to be a bit of a mystery. She wasn’t like most girls, and if I wanted to get to know her better, I was going to have to play by her rules.
I didn’t mind. She was intriguing. A little awkward, and often blunt. But intriguing nonetheless. A challenge. I was a competitive guy. I couldn’t resist a good challenge.
We pulled into the parking lot of the Bowl and Skate. It was packed full of cars, but I found a spot off to the side.
June glanced at me. “Bowling? Or roller skating? I should warn you, I’m not proficient at either of those activities. And it appears to be busy.”
“We’re not here to bowl,” I said. “Or skate. There’s a bowling tournament tonight. I figured we could be spectators. It’s not exactly a football game, or even baseball for that matter. But it’s the best I could do on short notice.”
June smiled. Her lips parted, the corners turning up, in an honest-to-goodness smile. It lit up her face, making her eyes sparkle. Made me feel like I’d just scored a game-winning touchdown.
“We’re here to watch bowling?”
“That we are. Sound good?”
“Yes. It sounds great.”
I got out of the car, but she was out before I could get around to open the door for her. I made up for it by holding the door open when we went into the bowling alley.
The rumble of bowling balls rolling down the lanes and the crack of falling pins filled the air. Every lane was full, a colorful motley of people in garish bowling league shirts. The scent of onion rings, fries, and beer mingled with the disinfectant the attendant sprayed into the rental shoes to keep them clean. Someone bowled a strike in lane four, and the team erupted with cheers.
I put my hand on the small of June’s back and led her through a knot of people. Most of the crowd was down near the lanes—there weren’t a lot of spectators—so we found a small table near the shoe counter.
Several laminated menus were stacked on one end of the table. I handed one to June and took a look at the selections. Pretty standard bowling alley fare. It all sounded good to me. Onion rings were definitely happening.
“What looks good?” I asked.
She tilted her head as she studied the menu. “I’m partial to just about everything they offer. Particularly onion rings.”
Onion rings? Damn, I liked her. “I’m with you there.”
There wasn’t a wait staff, so I got up and ordered at the bar. I brought back a pitcher of beer and poured two glasses.
June watched the bowlers, her eyes roaming across the scoreboards. I wondered what was going through that sharp mind of hers. The bartender brought our food—it smelled greasy and delicious—and we both dug in.
I never would have thought watching a bowling tournament could be this enjoyable. But just watching June have fun—listening to her calculations and predictions—was fascinating. She knew things about the origins of bowling—because of course she did. Her eyes were bright and her smile lit up the room as she scarfed down fried food and watched the tournament.
Made me think back on other dates I’d had. Expensive restaurants with fancy menus. Exclusive clubs. VIP treatment. Those days had held a certain appeal. It was fun to be treated like you were a big shot; even I could admit that.
But I’d never been so relaxed on a date before. I could kick back, stuff my face with onion rings and fries, and just chill. No pressure. No wondering if my date was only with me for my status or my money. June was a fan, but she didn’t seem to give two shits about my fame. And it was one more thing on a growing list of reasons I liked her.
“Have you picked a winner yet?” I asked, gesturing to the teams.
“It’s likely to be I Can’t Believe It’s Not Gutter.”
I glanced at the scoreboards. “Looks like they’re in third. You think they’ll pull ahead?”
“Their strongest players bowl last in the rotation, so I suspect their score will improve considerably in the later stages of the game.”
“Can’t argue with that logic.”
We watched a bit longer, finishing our meal. I needed to use the restroom, so I excused myself, leaving June at our table.
When I came out of the restroom, the thunder of bowling balls had been replaced by loud voices. An argument had broken out between the teams in lanes six and seven. A group of players in bright fuchsia bowling shirts—the Pin Pushers—squared off with the Ball Busters in neon green.
Most of the other bowlers had stopped playing, their attention on the altercation. I glanced around, wondering if there was a league official or a manager who could step in. Did bowling tournaments have refs?
“He was over the line,” a man in fuchsia said, jabbing his finger at one of his opponents in green. “It’s a foul. No points.”
“Bull honkey! He was not over the line. It’s a spare.”
A woman walked straight into the fray. A woman who looked disturbingly like June. I shot a quick glance at our table. Empty. It was June.
Oh hell no. I was not letting my woman get in the middle of a throw-down at a bowling tournament.
Wait, when had I started thinking of June as my woman?
I didn’t have time to contemplate that now. Seeing her stride into the middle of what looked like a fight waiting to happen had me ready to hurdle over the barrier to get to her. I was hit with a surge of adrenaline and I balled my hands into fists as I followed her onto the bowling floor.
The man in green’s face was red and his voice shook. “Now you listen here—”
“I’m done listening to this nonsense.” The man in fuchsia jabbed his finger at the opposing team again. “You try to get away with this every year. I’m not having it.”
June got right between them. I wanted to grab her by the waist and haul her out of there. Keep those crazy bowlers from touching her. What was she doing?
“Gentlemen,” June said, her voice filled with authority. She held out her arms as if to keep the two teams away from each other. “Let’s look at this logically. If the Pin Pushers did indeed have a spare, the relative results of the game won’t change. They’re currently in fourth place, and a spare won’t move their score high enough to take third.”
“But if they get another strike, that spare could kick them over the edge,” the man in gr
een said.
June rolled her eyes as if she couldn’t understand why she was having to explain something so simple to these people. “The points differential is already too high. The spare in question isn’t significant to the overall scores. Not this late in the game.”
“But—”
“As long as none of your team members deviate from your current average, your position in third is secure,” June said.
The man in fuchsia crossed his arms, his brow furrowing.
I grabbed June’s hand to pull her out of there. “She means don’t mess up and they can’t beat you.”
That seemed to pacify him. He shot the man in green one last glare, then both teams went back to their lanes.
I put my arm around June and gently led her back to our table. “Well, that was some unexpected excitement.”
“And kids think math isn’t important.”
I laughed. This girl was something else. “You showed them, didn’t you?”
11
June
George certainly knew how to take a woman on a date. Although my dating experience was limited, it wasn’t non-existent, and this had been the best date I’d ever had.
I’d assumed he’d take me to dinner, which would have involved a need for a great deal of conversation. Looking back on how I’d felt prior to George’s arrival at my house, much of my anxiety had stemmed from the fear that I’d be unable to maintain a mutually satisfying conversation for the duration of a meal.
But he’d chosen an alternative that had not only been more comfortable, it had been exceedingly enjoyable.
He offered me his arm again as we departed from our table near the shoe counter. This time, he placed his other hand—that large, strong hand—over mine and squeezed. His skin was warm, but not uncomfortably so, and his touch made me want to lean closer. Feel more.
It was odd that despite George’s size, his presence in my personal space didn’t feel intrusive. In fact, since I’d settled the scoring dispute between the Pin Pushers and the Ball Busters, he’d become increasingly physical. He’d led me away from the bowlers with his arm around my shoulders in a gesture that had felt protective—maybe even possessive.
I’d liked it.
We left the Bowl and Skate and drove home. He pulled up in front of my house and turned off the engine. A wave of disappointment crashed through me as he got out of the car. This was it. The date was over, or on the verge of being so. In mere moments, I’d be back inside my house and George would be gone.
I couldn’t explain why I found the notion of saying goodnight so depressing. There was nothing logical about the cascade of negative emotion that washed over me. It was just a date. It wasn’t as if we had to say goodbye for an extended period of time. My brain seemed to understand the reality of our situation. It was very likely I’d see him again as early as tomorrow.
But there was another part of me—a part that seemed to reject logic and reason in favor of the power of all these feelings—that hated the idea of our night together ending.
Gram-Gram had always said that when faced with an unpleasant situation, it was best to just pluck the whole chicken. In this case, there weren’t any actual chickens involved, but I understood what she’d meant.
I got out and walked straight for my porch, trying to fish my house key out of my handbag as I went. George was right behind me. I could practically feel his presence at my back. My heart beat faster and I once again felt vaguely nauseated.
“Thank you for taking me on a date,” I said as I fumbled for my key. “I had a nice time.”
“June?”
His voice brought me up short and I tilted my head back so I could look up at him.
“Yes?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He shrugged, just a subtle lift of his shoulders, and didn’t break eye contact. “I don’t know. I guess that’s why I’m asking. You seem like you’re in a hurry to go.”
“The date’s over.”
“Is it?”
Realization dawned on me and the roiling in my stomach intensified. He expected me to invite him in. He’d taken me out on a date and believed it would end with sexual intercourse.
It felt as if the blood was draining from my face. I had no problem with people—women or men—who chose to have sexual relations on a first date. Or second, if that’s what this was, and last night’s drink at the Lookout counted as our first. But physical intimacy was complicated for me. And that wasn’t something I wanted to have to explain to George tonight.
Was that why he’d taken me out? Was his primary aim to get in my pants, as Scarlett would say?
He blinked once, his eyes still on mine, his gaze intense. I expected him to move closer. To crowd me with his large size. But he didn’t. His expression softened and one corner of his mouth twitched, as if he were about to smile.
“I told you, June Bug, I’m not a man who’ll push his human mating rituals too far. I know you’re going inside without me tonight.”
Hearing him use my favorite nickname did strange things to my insides. It made me feel warm and melty. But the gooey feeling warred with guilt over making the assumption that he’d only taken me out on a date for sex.
I glanced down. “I’m sorry I had the wrong impression.”
He touched my chin with his fingertip and brought my gaze back up to his. “Don’t be. We’re still getting to know each other.”
“If you’ve not already become aware, I think it’s only fair that I inform you of something.”
His brow furrowed and I’d never realized how intensely sexy that looked on a man. “What?”
“I’m not very good at this.”
“Not good at what? Saying goodnight?”
I shook my head. “Dating.”
He smiled, running the pad of his finger along my jaw. “I think you’re doing just fine.”
“Thank you. You as well. You’re clearly quite proficient.”
“At human mating rituals.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I am.” He traced that magical finger from my forehead, down my temple, and tucked my hair behind my ear.
“Why not?”
“It’s our second date, and I haven’t kissed you yet. Or is it our third? Even worse.”
“Well, one could argue—”
He put his finger against my lips. “Yes, we could argue about whether we’ve had a date before tonight. But I’d much rather just kiss you. What do you think?”
Kissing on my front porch did sound appealing. My eyes traveled to his mouth. His lips were full, the corners lifting.
I nodded and he moved his finger from my lips.
My heart beat furiously. If not for my solid understanding of human anatomy, I’d have wondered if it could bruise itself against my ribs. My fingers and toes tingled, and I couldn’t take my eyes off George’s mouth. Those lips. That rugged square jaw and those dimples in his cheeks.
He brushed my hair back from my face again, tucking the other side behind my ear. What a mysteriously charming gesture.
Instinctively, I tilted my chin up, angling my face to better receive his lips against mine. Judging by his incoming trajectory, it seemed the optimal angle would be…
And then our mouths touched, and my mind went blank.
Soft, wet lips exerted gentle pressure against mine, and my eyes fluttered closed. His hand moved around to the back of my head, his fingers sliding through my hair. A tingling sensation spread across my skin, intensified by the scratchiness of his stubble.
Without conscious thought, I reached for him, letting my hands rest against his torso. My fingertips and palms discovered ridges of muscle beneath his shirt. The combination of rough and soft—hard and warm—made a shiver race down my spine and heat pool in my core.
He sucked my lower lip into his mouth and traced it with his tongue. I clutched his shirt, drawing him closer, and his grip on me tightened. Our
tongues touched, first just the tips. Then they slid against each other in a long, languid stroke that practically made my knees buckle.
A low noise vibrated in his throat, a hum that was nearly a growl. He pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around my much smaller frame, enveloping me.
There was skin and movement and the scruff on his jaw. Warm tongues and wet mouths. It was all so overwhelming. Drowning me in a flood of sensation.
His grip on my head loosened as he gradually drew back. I tried to follow; I wasn’t ready to stop kissing yet. I felt him smile against my mouth before kissing me again. One last breathtaking, soul-stealing kiss.
As he pulled away from me, I was briefly disoriented. I blinked a few times and reached out to touch the door, as if the solid wood could ground me in reality. The cascade of physical sensations still stimulating my nervous system was almost too much to process.
“Can I call you?” George asked.
“What? Oh. No.”
He leaned back slightly, his eyebrows shooting upward. “No?”
“We have yet to exchange phone numbers. It would be impossible for you to call me.”
He smiled. “You’re right, I worded that question wrong. Can I have your number so I can call you?”
“Yes, of course you can.”
We exchanged numbers, my heart still beating so hard it made the blood roar in my ears.
“I’ll call you,” he said. “Good night, June Bug.”
“Goodnight, George.”
I went inside and shut the door behind me.
Jonah glanced up from the couch. The TV was on. “Hey, Juney. How was your date?”
“Magical.”
12
June
George did call. The very next day. Cassidy was quite impressed, and to be truthful, I was as well. He didn’t seem like the type of man who’d promise to call if he didn’t mean it. But from what I knew of men, that was a common problem. And I wasn’t very good at reading people.
Bourbon Bliss: Bootleg Springs Book Four Page 8
