He purses his lips and stares at the label of his beer bottle. “I don’t get drunk.”
At first I think the comment is his way of being flip, but when he looks up and smiles almost apologetically to me, I know he’s being truthful. The fun and flirty of seconds ago abandoned to a quiet solemnity he exudes.
“Never?”
He subtly tilts his head from side to side as if he’s weighing his response. “Rarely. Mostly just enough to get a buzz, then no more.”
“A control freak, I take it?”
His chuckle falls flat. “When your parents are lifelong alcoholics it makes the desire to get shit-faced way less appealing.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“Don’t be,” he shrugs and falls silent, making me think this topic of conversation is over. We’re silent for a beat as the song changes once again so I’m surprised when he speaks without prompting. “Some of us have role models for parents. Others like me get the shit end of the stick and learn to fend for ourselves years before we should ever have to.”
“Did they move to the states with you when you came here?”
His snort is automatic, his sneer marring his handsome face. “Nope. Haven’t seen them since and don’t care to.”
It must have been bad. He’s a man who could fly home or bring them to the states without worrying about the dent it would put in his pocketbook like so many others can’t, and so the fact he hasn’t seen them speaks for itself.
“So they’re the reason you left Australia behind?” I ask, putting two and two together from his comment earlier.
“Yes and no.”
“I can respect that,” I say as I watch the rows of people on the dance floor move in synchronization to the line dance they all know and wonder how much of his parents and their addiction forged Zane’s temeritous drive to succeed. “I’m sorry. If I had known, I would have never suggested that we go to get drinks—”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Cinder. I’m a big boy. I drink when I want. I stop when I want. It’s not a big deal.” He leans in closer to me. “Look at it this way, it just means you can drink all you want, and I’ll be the one to make sure you’re okay.”
“Are you trying to be my knight in shining armor, Zane?”
“It doesn’t seem to me that you’re the type of woman who needs rescuing. You seem to have it handled all on your own.”
The admiration in his tone tells me it’s a compliment. But a dormant part of me rises up and wants to argue that it’s okay for men to take care of women, regardless of how strong they are. It wants to tell him that all people want to be loved and cherished, and strength has nothing to do with it.
Immediately I feel silly for even thinking that. I avert my gaze and smile at the bartender who’s just caught my eye. It’s so much easier to look at him than it is Zane, whose honesty unnerves me when I’m never unnerved.
“You want to tell me about Robert?” Robert is safe. Zane and his body near me and his cologne around me is not.
“Nope. Not here, not now. I want to sit here and not think about work.”
The irony is that’s our safe zone. Work. It may be where we pretend to be together, but at least I know what to expect. At least I know how to react. But this—being here with him and knowing what’s going to happen between us after last call most definitely is not safe.
It’s playing with a fire that no doubt is going to burn me and yet for the life of me, I still want to feel the heat.
“Dance with me?” I ask as the music switches to a popular song. Anything to spark the sexual tension that is reverberating between us.
“Nah. I don’t dance.” He shakes his head and takes a sip.
“C’mon, Phillips. Let loose with me.”
Something glances through his eyes—desire, intensity—I don’t know but it makes my heart beat a bit faster. “I’ll watch,” he murmurs and holds his fingers up to the bartender for another round.
“Suit yourself, then.” I slide off the stool, trail a fingertip over the back of his neck, and then make my way toward the crowded dance floor knowing damn well he’s watching every step I take.
THE WAY SHE MOVES ON the dance floor.
Christ almighty.
Good thing I’m just here for the sex.
Can’t say I’ve ever had an opening line like that before. And not just the words, but the way she delivered them. Matter of fact. To the point. A slight smile saying she could be joking if I blew her off.
The woman’s a force to be reckoned with and damn do I want to be reckoned by her.
Hands down.
No question.
She may mess up the dance steps but the way she throws her head back and laughs and how she swivels her hips and moves has even the cowboys around her smitten instead of irritated that she’s scuffing up their boots.
Smitten?
Fuck. Maybe that’s what I am too.