“Back off, Beau.” Duke glared at me, the muscle at his temple jumping.
“Don’t want to talk about the weather?” I grinned, adding, “Because my brother Billy loves talking about the weather.”
Like the other times I’d stepped between Shelly and a man with wounded pride, I felt her behind me. I thought I’d given her enough space, but I must’ve misjudged because she was directly behind me, her breath on my neck like the first time with Drill weeks ago. It sent shards of sensation racing over my skin. And when she inhaled, her chest pressed against my back.
I was aware of her, and the awareness was incredibly distracting.
Duke sobered at the mention of Billy, rocking backward on his heels. He seemed to be considering his options, and I understood that. When a man’s pride is all he has worth defending, it makes him reckless.
Finally, after a tense moment, he stepped back and grabbed his beer. “Fine. I was finished with her anyway.” His eyes flickered over my shoulder to Shelly.
I tensed, because if I was reading Duke right, then an insult was on the tip of his tongue, and not a clever one either. One of the obscene variety. And if he said it, then I was going to have to punch him.
What? Why? Why do you have to punch him?
Because.
Not a good reason.
You’d do it for anyone.
No. I’m not sure that is strictly true.
For Shelly.
You are out of your damn mind. She’s not yours, you’re not hers.
Maybe . . . she could be?
Again, out of your damn mind. Remember Cletus? YOUR BROTHER?
Thankfully, at the last minute he bit it back, smirking as he sauntered away.
I was rattled. And muddled. Not by Duke or the threat of violence, though I was rattled and muddled by my own instincts.
I covered my confusion by glaring at the crowd gathered, silently communicating that the show was over as I turned to face her. Folks dispersed, and Hank—currently behind Shelly—motioned to the bartender to place our order.
Moving to allow space between us, I lifted my eyes to hers. They looked less cold than was typical, glowing as they searched mine. But her entire body was rigid.
Fighting the urge to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, I instead pulled it through my hair.
“We’re not at the shop,” she said with her trademark lack of emotion.
“So?”
“So . . .” She took a half step forward, invading my space. “Don’t do that.” Her tone was almost soft.
“Do what?”
“Warn guys off.”
I flinched, feeling my brows come together. “You liked how he was treating you?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
She licked her lips, glancing at the bar, and then back to me. “Where’s your girlfriend?”
“My what?”
“Girlfriend.” A crease formed between her eyebrows. “When we met, you said you were seeing someone.”
“Oh. No. That ended. Actually, it never really started.”
“Oh.” Either it was my imagination, or that news seemed to please her.
Probably your imagination.
“So—”
“Either way, I don’t need your help.” Her voice was still gentle. Well, gentle for Shelly Sullivan.
And I wasn’t sure what to do with her gentleness, or her words. I stared at her, trying to read her mind. Getting a read on this woman was the ultimate effort in futility. She was locked up tight, still looking at me from behind a sheet of ice.
Maybe not as hostile as before, but just as guarded.
“Fine.” I nodded once, trying not to be irritated.
She inspected my face. “Are you mad?”
“No,” I responded immediately. Her question surprised me; when had she ever cared if I was mad?
Hank came to stand next to us. “Here’s your beer, Beau. I’m going to take Duane and Jess’s drinks back to the table. Y’all coming?”
“In a minute.” I accepted the beer and indicated that he should go on without me.
Hank turned a tight smile to Shelly. She glared at him, one of her eyebrows lifting slightly higher than the other.
“Well, okay then,” he said, turned, and left.
As soon as Hank was out of earshot, Shelly grit her teeth, her gaze sliding away. “I’m not good with people.”
“No? I never would have guessed.” I endeavored to keep sarcasm out of my voice, tried for teasing.
I failed.
Her stare darted back to mine and sharpened in that way she had. “You’re being sarcastic.”
“What gave me away?” I covered my unease with a swallow of my beer. She was skewering me with her eyes, cutting me open.
“The tone of your voice,” she responded in a monotone. “And your words.”
“That was a rhetorical question.”
“Right.” She nodded, her eyes fell back to the bar top and I was relieved to be out of their snare. I wondered if I’d ever grow accustomed to the weight of her attention. The rubber band around my chest had returned in full force, so did the restlessness.
This woman agitated me like no one else. Talking to her was like riding a roller coaster blindfolded. I needed to leave.
Giving her a quick nod, I moved to depart. “Well, nice seeing you.”
“Wait.” Her hand reached out and gripped my forearm.
And then she froze, staring at her hand on me like she expected something to happen. For my part, I was also stunned. I didn’t move. I watched her. A weird mixture of fear and determination played over her face.
Shelly released a shaky breath, her grip loosening but not releasing me. “Can we talk?”
“You want to talk? To me?”
“Yes.” Her gaze lifted—more fear, more determination—and held. “Please.”
My eyes widened at that. This night was just full of surprises.
Nevertheless, I nodded, leaning against the bar. “Okay.”
Her fingers slid away in a way that felt reluctant, and she twisted the coaster next to her drink until its side was perfectly parallel with the edge of the bar, saying nothing.
So I waited. I waited for a good while. I caught Kimmy Jones staring daggers at the back of Shelly’s head, bending to whisper something to Kelly Gavin and making a sour face. That surprised me. Kimmy had always seemed like a nice person. As far as I knew, she’d never met Shelly.
Women are weird, and that’s a fact.
Just as I took a gulp of my beer, Shelly said, “I'd like to have sex with you.”
I choked.
Beer threatening to come out of my nose, I brought my hand to my mouth and coughed, staring at this woman and certain—very, very certain—I’d misheard her.
She watched me, expressionless. Except, even as my eyes blurred with the tears of a good coughing fit, I detected a shift in her, a sliver of vulnerability—uncertainty—as she stared at me.
I coughed so long and so hard, the bartender eventually brought me a glass of water. I drank it, staring at Shelly.
And when I set it down, I rasped, “Excuse me?”
“You are excused.”
“No, I wasn't—” I shook my head quickly and pinched the bridge of my nose with my thumb and forefinger. “What did you just say?”
“I said, I'd like to have sex with you.”