Chapter 1 #2
Callum thumped me on the shoulder. “Why dinna you go work on rectifying whatever shite impression you’ve made? Go ask her to dance.”
Knowing they weren’t likely to leave me be until I gave in, I shrugged and set my glass on the tray of a passing server. “Fine.”
Saoirse sat at a table with Parker and two of their other friends, Skye Stuart and Pippa Wallace.
Like Parker, who originally hailed from Tennessee, Skye was also an American ex-pat who’d made her home in Glenlaig because she’d fallen in love with her Scottish penpal.
Pippa was a local whose claim to fame was making cheese so good it had prompted more than one marriage proposal.
She hadn’t said yes, but it turned out that was because she was in love with a cowboy.
That cowboy had relocated here a few months ago to be with her, and we all expected the proposal to happen by the end of the year.
Damn, I really was the last man standing.
I headed in their direction. I wasn’t in the market for anything real. But the second Saoirse smiled at Parker—really smiled, not the sharp little smirks she gave me—I felt something in my chest shift.
Dangerous territory.
I should’ve walked away. Instead, I turned on the charming smile that worked on almost everyone. “Hello, ladies. You all look lovely this evening.”
Parker grinned at me. “You don’t look so bad yourself. There is so much Scottish hotness in this room, I hardly know what to do with myself.”
Saoirse crossed her legs, revealing a slit in her dress that showed a long stretch of muscled thigh. “I expect if you took your own piece of Scottish hotness home, he would have plenty of ideas.”
Bloody hell. I had quite a few ideas of my own, starting with finding out exactly how high I could slide my hand beneath that dress.
Focus, Patterson .
The music changed.
“Pippa, darlin’, they’re playin’ our song.” Zeke Shaw, a tall, dark-haired chap in the incongruous combination of a kilt and a cowboy hat, extended his hand.
There was a flurry of movement as Callum collected Parker, and Jason McKinnon swept Skye onto the dance floor. Then Saoirse and I were alone, with no friends as buffer.
Right. I’d come over here on a mission.
I held out my hand. “Would you care to dance?”
Saoirse looked at me like I was something stuck to the bottom of her shoe—which, considering she was a vet who routinely dealt with all manner of animal messes, was saying something.
Her green eyes narrowed slightly, lips pursed as she weighed her options.
I could practically see the war between good manners and genuine distaste playing out across her face.
“All right.” Her posh accent clipped the words short.
She placed her hand in mine with visible reluctance.
Her fingers were cool and slender, and a little jolt of awareness shot up my arm at the contact.
I led her to the dance floor and placed my hand at her waist, careful to keep a respectable distance between us.
She smelled incredible. Something citrusy and fresh that tempted me to lean in closer.
“I’m surprised you’re not already paired up with someone.” Her tone implied she couldn’t fathom why any woman would voluntarily spend time with me.
“Maybe I was waiting for you.” It was audacious, ridiculous, and… maybe a wee bit true.
Her eyebrow arched. Classic Saoirse. One part ice, one part fire, all wrapped in posh vowels sharp enough to draw blood. I’d been flirting with women my whole life, and this one? She parried like it was an Olympic sport.
“Do lines like that actually work on women?”
“Occasionally.” I grinned. “Though not the clever ones, apparently.”
“At least you recognize your limitations.”
I spun her smoothly, bringing her back with perhaps a touch more force than necessary, closing the gap between us momentarily.
Her breath caught, and for a split second, something flashed in her eyes that wasn’t annoyance—that flicker of heat, quick and gone like a match strike.
What would it take to make it burn longer?
My voice dropped lower. “I’m not as limited as you seem to think.”
She recovered quickly. “I’ve yet to see evidence to the contrary.”
“You’ve barely given me the time of day since we met. Hard to demonstrate my many talents.”
“Talents?” She huffed a laugh that was dangerously close to a snort. “Like your talent for avoiding responsibility?”
I guided her through a turn. “I’m reliable where it counts.”
“I’m sure your definition of ‘where it counts’ is quite convenient.”
The music shifted tempo, and I adjusted our steps. Her body moved in perfect time with mine, despite her obvious discomfort. The friction between us was building—and not simply the argumentative kind. Why was it this woman who incited this reaction in me?
“You know—” I kept my tone conversational. “—most people actually like me.”
“I’m not most people.”
“Clearly.”
She stepped back suddenly, breaking our connection. “Thank you for the dance.” She offered the words with the stiff formality of someone completing an unpleasant obligation. “I believe I’ll get some air.”
Before I could respond, she turned and walked away, her back straight as a board. I watched her go, admiring the view despite myself. Once she’d disappeared out the side door, I shook off whatever spell she’d cast.
Get a grip, Patterson. She wasn’t for you. Not then. Not now. Not ever.
But that didn’t stop me from wanting to follow her out the door.
I’d been polite, done the thing. Now I deserved another drink.