“He didn’t speak to me the entire ride home. Not one word. I kept trying to make small talk but the only response I got was indiscernible grunts.”
“Right, but what did you expect?” Destiny shifted in the booth, looking about as uncomfortable as I would expect a two-week-overdue woman to look.
Cara’s shoulders lifted slightly as she gently pointed out, “He is kind of the strong, silent type.”
“Whatever.” My friends might be right, but that wasn’t the point. I continued on with the story undeterred. “When he pulled up in front of my house, I was done trying to play nice, so I grabbed my purse and Romeo and was out of the truck before he’d even come to a complete stop. When I got to my front door he rolled down his window and said, and I quote” I paused as I dipped my chin down and lowered my voice in my best Hudson Reed impression, “‘Don’t leave town.’”
When he’d said those three words, my entire body had gone up in flames of desire like it was dry brush and his voice was a cigarette butt. I conveniently withheld that small piece of information from my two best friends.
Even before he’d donned a badge, Hudson had possessed that whole domineering air of authority thing. Ever since I could remember, people listened and obeyed when he spoke. He’d been the captain of every basketball and football team that he’d ever been on, including Pee Wee and Little League. And it didn’t stop there. The subject was a hot topic amongst the female population of Wishing Well and every girl that Hud dated blushed like a virgin in a strip club whenever the subject of whether or not his authoritarian demeanor translated behind closed doors.
Which was, I had to admit, one of the reasons why I’d offered myself up like I was a steak dinner and Hud was a man on death row. It was the summer before I left for college, and I’d wanted my first time to be with someone who knew how to take charge. Who knew what they were doing. Unfortunately, instead of devouring me like I’d expected, Hud had politely refused my advances. For some reason, that had pissed me off even more than if he’d just laughed at me.
It also made me want him even more than I already had. Since I was two, I’d only wanted to play with the toys my brothers were playing with—but once they’d give one to me, I’d get bored. My entire family teased me about only wanting things I couldn’t have.
“He actually said that?” Destiny’s eyes widened in disbelief as she lifted her almost-empty virgin pi?a colada and sipped the remaining contents through the pink straw. The slurping sound snapped me out of my Hud haze.
Cara’s brows knitted together. “Where did he think you were going to go?”
“Right!?” My arms flew up in frustration. “Did he really think that I was going to go all Harrison Ford in The Fugitive?”
“Actually, Harrison Ford was innocent,” Cara pointed out.
“I’m innocent!” I cried in indignant outrage.
“I seriously doubt that.” Bryson winked at me as he approached our booth tucked in the back corner of The Tipsy Cow. “Can I get you ladies another round?”
“Yes,” Cara, Destiny, and I all responded.
Tonight was most likely going to be the last girl’s night out we were going to have for a while. Destiny was overdue, and once the baby came there was a very good chance it would be months before we were able to get together again.
With a nod and a grin that showcased the deep dimple in his right cheek, he headed behind the bar to make our drinks. We all watched in silent appreciation as Bryson moved with the sleek, sexy grace of a predatory jungle cat. He flipped bottles in the air, spun them around his arm and wrists, putting on a show for the patrons seated in front of him. The corded muscles in his arms were a piece of art. But they only received the bronze medal in his sex appeal Olympics. The silver went to his jet-black hair, blue eyes, and chiseled jaw. The gold had to go to his panty-melting brogue, thanks to the fact that he was first generation.
His parents had migrated from Ireland when he was only five. They both spoke with such thick accents that whenever they got mad, happy, or had a pint of Guinness in them, it was impossible to understand them.
For Bryson, there was only a hint of his Irish accent normally, but when he said “darlin’” there wasn’t a woman within earshot who wasn’t reduced to a puddle of lust.
With a sigh, Cara shook her head slowly. “I really thought that if anyone was going to get you to break your cardinal rule and be the water that flooded your dry spell, it would be Bryson.”
“So did I.” Tearing my eyes away from the show our favorite bartender was putting on, I faced my friends. “Believe me, I wanted him to be the one more than anyone.”