And deliciously, drastically dangerous.
When I’d first walked in, it had been slightly uncomfortable, not knowing exactly how it would go pretending we hadn’t done what we did. But then he’d invited me to sit, and made a joke, and eventually, he’d smiled. And laughed—God, his laughter made me so happy. I wanted to roll around in it, get it all over me, like a pig in the mud.
He looked so good. I could hardly take my eyes off him. I loved the wayward curl of his hair, which I noticed for the first time had a little bit of gray. I loved the shape of his full mouth and had a hard time looking away every time he brought his beer bottle to his lips. I loved the way the cuffed-up sleeves of his blue shirt showed off those tanned, muscular forearms. He even wore a wrist watch tonight, with a large round navy blue face and a brown leather band with white stitching.
He also wore his wedding ring. And when he brought up Steph, I’d taken it as an invitation to ask about her, although I was surprised at how forthcoming he was. I got the feeling he was surprised, too, by how much he was revealing about himself, but it made me happy to think he felt comfortable confiding in me.
But instead of shutting down my attraction to him, the opposite happened—after hearing about their romance, I found myself even more intrigued. Here was this big, brawny, tough-as-nails ex-soldier talking about his first love, how grateful he was for her, how she’d saved him. And when he’d said he couldn’t save her, my heart had cracked, and feelings for him had started to seep in.
Maybe if he hadn’t asked about my horse. Maybe if he hadn’t been curious about my family. Maybe if he hadn’t told me he’d enlisted after 9/11 or talked so lovingly about his nephew or laughed so joyfully at my nickname. Maybe then, I’d have been safe.
But instead, I found myself wanting him again—badly—and regretting the circumstances that made it a terrible idea.
I tried not to flirt. I tried not to touch him. I tried to “pretend it had never happened,” but by the time he paid the bill—he’d insisted on treating me to dinner—we were both half drunk and unable to remember the rules.
“OK, Magellan,” he teased, turning me around after I headed the wrong way, looking for the exit. “Neither one of us should drive home tonight, so I’m going to walk you back to your cottage. Then I’ll walk home.”
“You don’t have to walk me back!”
He held up a hand. “Please. If I don’t help you, you’ll probably end up in Deckerville.”
I giggled. “What about your truck?”
“It’ll be fine. Oh, shit.” Thunder rumbled as we stepped out onto the sidewalk in the dark, the air warm and humid and smelling faintly metallic, but it wasn’t raining yet. “We better hurry.”
I had to work to keep up with him, and I was out of breath by the time we’d walked a block. “Slow down,” I panted, then laughed. “You’re always so fast at everything.”
He groaned and grabbed my hand as we crossed the street, like he was the parent and I was the child. “Last night was not representative of my sexual skills.”
“Hey, no complaints here,” I said, stumbling up the curb.
He caught me by the elbows, and his touch electrified me. It must have had an effect on him too, because he let go of me as soon as I had my balance and put some distance between us. “Well, good.”
“And anyway, it never happened.” I bit my lip to keep from laughing.
“Nope, it didn’t,” he said.
“Not in a house.”
“Not with a mouse.”
“Not in a box.”
“Not with a fox.”
“It did not happen here or there.”
“It did not happen anywhere.” Lightning flashed, and he grabbed my arm and started to jog, dragging me alongside him. But he was laughing.
And I was giggling so hard, I could hardly breathe—the fact that Jack could recite Dr. Seuss was hilarious to me. Did he read to his nephew?
“Oh God, I have to go to the bathroom,” I moaned, trying to run in sandals while squeezing my legs together. “Who told me to have that fourth glass of wine. Was it you?” I pointed at him accusingly.
“Don’t blame me, Miss I Will If You Will. If you wet your pants, it will not be my fault. And I don’t have a bathroom to offer you this time.”
I groaned. “This is really embarrassing.”
“I know. You’re a mess.” He looked both ways and led me across another street.
“I am, aren’t I?”
“Yep. Look at you. Unattractive, not too clever, uneducated, hopeless at farm work, a Peeping Tom, and serious bladder control issues.”
“Ouch.” I made a face.
“And you’re slow,” he complained, tugging me along.
“Sheesh, I don’t have much going for me, do I?” A few raindrops started to pelt us as he yanked me up the walkway to my cottage.