He tossed her a confused look. “What?”
“The woman who kept rubbing herself all over you.” Seriously, shut up!
His confusion turned into laughter. The kind that had his head thrown back and danced down her spine like the tips of his blunt fingers. Bastard.
“You’re so cute,” he told her, then flicked the end of her nose with his index finger.
She swatted him away but his hand had already retreated. So her reflexes were a little slow.
“My car’s over there.” She pointed toward the back of the building when they reached his truck.
Brandon snorted and pulled his keys from his jeans pockets. “Yeah, right.”
She yanked out of his grasp. “I can drive.”
“Nope.”
A heavy sigh flowed out of her. “Brandon…”
He leaned against his truck and folded his arms over his chest. How was he only wearing a T-shirt when it was, like, fifty degrees outside? Didn’t the man ever get cold? And why did all his shirts look like they were two sizes too small for him?
“Don’t you own any shirts that fit you?”
He blinked. “What?”
“I mean, why do they have to be so tight?” she went on, because…yeah. “Not everyone wants to see all that muscle. Some women actually get turned off by it.”
His brow pinched. “Seriously, what?”
She lifted her eyes to the night sky. “Never mind. I can find my own way to my car.”
His hand shot out and grabbed her elbow. Why did he always grab her? And why did she always like it? “Stella, you get in that car, you’ll end up wrapped around a telephone pole.”
“Not your problem,” she tossed over her shoulder.
He yanked her back and pinned her against his truck. “Yeah, it is. You get in that car and you’re not giving Matt any more ballet lessons.”
She narrowed her eyes at him and tried to ignore the solid muscle pinning her backside to her vehicle. “Low blow, West.”
He opened the passenger door without breaking eye contact with her. “In,” he ordered.
“Well, since you asked so nicely.” She did as she was told, squinting against the bright interior light.
Without saying anything else, Brandon opened the glove compartment and withdrew a small first aid kit. Inside was a small packet of ointment and several Band-Aids.
“Such a Boy Scout,” she teased. A new round of lightning passed through her skull, punishing her for trying to speak. How hard had that door hit her anyway?
Brandon was silent a moment as he tore into the ointment and squeezed a dab on his thumb. “You learn real fast to be prepared when you’re a parent,” he said in a low voice. “Try not to move.”
His touch was gentle, but the contact still stung and sent sharp jabs of pain through her skull. “Ow.”
One side of his mouth kicked up. And it really was a nice mouth. Full and soft and close enough that she could lean forward just enough to feel it. A simple touch was all she wanted.
“Focus, Stella,” he told her.
How did he always know?
He finished with the ointment and tore open a bandage. “So, are you going to tell me what you were doing in the men’s room?”
“Well, it certainly wasn’t to look at your junk.” Although she wouldn’t have minded. Except, no.
Brandon applied the bandage with gentle ease, smoothing his fingers across her forehead. “Always with the joking.”
His touch should have hurt. The soft pressure of his fingers should have exacerbated her already throbbing headache. Instead her eyes drifted shut when his hand smoothed down her temple and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Of all the men in the town, why him? Why did she have to be attracted to him?
Except it was more than a garden-variety attraction. She knew it. Hell, he probably knew it too. Her feelings for him toed the line of something deeper. Something that had settled into the forbidden part of her heart and refused to leave. She knew for a fact that it was more, because his touch didn’t freak her out. Her anxiety had eased around him and Stella couldn’t remember the last man who’d been able to get this close to her.
“Do you want me to back off?” he asked, as though sensing her thoughts. Because he knew she had a problem. He was so in tune with her, so perceptive and aware when no one else had been able to pick up on it.
She shook her head. “No, it’s okay.”
“You sure?” he pressed, resting one arm on the open door of the truck and the other on the roof. “Because by now you’re usually hyperventilating.”
Lovely of him to point out. “I’m fine.”
“But you’re still not ready to talk about it.”
“Talk about what?” As if she didn’t know.
“Why being around men makes you so skittish.”
Skittish wasn’t the word she’d use, but she didn’t correct him. “No.”
He nodded and glanced around. “All right. Then how about you spill about tonight?”
Definitely not going there. She shrugged like she was all casual. “What about it?”
He removed his hand from the roof of the cab and smoothed another strand of her hair down. “Let’s start with why you were so drunk that you wandered into the wrong bathroom.”
Um…I was jealous of the model you were with and drank too much? “Their bathrooms aren’t labeled well.”
“Yet, no one else had a problem,” he pointed out.
Touché. “I guess I had more to drink than I realized.” And that was all he would get out of her.
He narrowed his eyes. “Why?”
She threw her hands up. “Why do you care?”
“Because you don’t seem like the type to drink yourself stupid.”
She tilted her head at him, then closed her eyes when the movement caused a new wave of throbbing. “And what type am I?”
“Smarter than that.”
“You think you know me so well.”
He shifted closer, close enough for his knees to brush hers. “I know you better than you give me credit for.” His grin was back. “That kills you, doesn’t it?”
She shifted back in the seat so their legs no longer touched. “What’s killing me is the line of questioning. Why can’t you just let me go to my car?”
“Already told you, you’re not driving.”
She turned in the seat, staring out the windshield and crossing her arms over her chest. “Then just take me home.”
He stared at her for a moment longer, then slammed the truck door. A second later, he was in the driver’s seat and turning the vehicle on. “I need your car keys.”
“Why?” she asked without looking at him.
“So I can come by in the morning and get your car. I’ll bring Matt and drop it off at your house.”
She shot him a look. “You don’t need—”
“Keys,” he ground out.
Okay, he was mad. Fine, she could be mad too. They could just be mad together and not kiss, because that was the last thing she wanted.
Throwing one final glare at him, Stella looked around for her bag and…
“I think I left my purse inside.”