Prologue - The Bar #2
She turns her head sharply to look at me, the disbelief in her eyes is obvious, and tension immediately simmers between us.
The air in the space between our stools turns thick and heavy, the ambient noise of the bar fading into a dull, distant hum.
The moment my skin makes contact with hers, the touch feels like a sudden, violent jolt of electricity.
It hits my palm and shoots straight up my arm, a white-hot spark that sets every nerve ending in my body on fire.
It is all I can do not to jerk my hand away from her as if I've just touched a hot engine block.
My fingers twitch, but I force myself to keep them flat over the glass, my skin dark and rough against her pale, smooth wrist.
She doesn't pull back either, and she goes entirely still, her head turning slowly toward me until those mid-day sky blue eyes are locked directly onto mine, and the disbelief in her eyes turns to shock.
She's obviously tipsy. Her eyelids are slightly heavy, the dark lashes casting long shadows over the freckles on her nose, but I couldn't resist the seductive, sharp look in her eyes as she eyes me up and down.
There's a dangerous, lazy heat in her gaze now, a challenge that makes my stomach tighten.
"I can handle my drinks," she murmurs, her lower lip twisting into a small, defiant pout that draws my attention straight to how full and shapely her mouth is. She doesn't have a lick of lipstick on, but her lips are flushed red from the rye.
I remain silent, but I don't take my hand off the glass. I'm trying like hell to get myself under control, breathing in the scent of her crushed clover and rye, trying not to behave like some green, teenage boy who's just been shown a little attention by his high school crush.
It's pathetic. I'm a grown man with a club history, a business, and a life back in Moonrise, and I'm currently losing my mind because a woman with red hair looked at me in a Galveston tavern.
But the woman in front of me obviously has other ideas.
She doesn't pull her hand away from the glass.
Instead, she slowly turns her hand over beneath mine, sliding her palm against my rough skin until her fingers slip between my knuckles.
She places her palm flat against mine, her fingers curling around the back of my hand, locking our fingers together over the mahogany counter.
"Can you feel that?" she whispers, her eyes narrowing slightly as she leans closer, her breath warm against my cheek. "Can you feel the heat and chemistry between us?"
I simply look at her. The weight of her palm against mine is heavy, the heat rolling off her skin enough to make my collar feel tight. I don't shake her hand away or move a single inch. More like, I can't.
Seeing that I'm not backing away, she seems to grow bolder.
She lets go of my hand and slides her fingers up the sleeve of my flannel shirt, her palm moving slowly up my forearm until it reaches my bicep.
She squeezes the muscle, her grip surprisingly firm for a woman her size, her fingers pressing into the heavy ink of the skull tattoo rolling over my shoulder.
"Look at you," she murmurs, her voice dropping into a husky, breathless register that makes me think of dark rooms and twisted sheets. "You're so strong. You have the look of a man who doesn't ask for permission."
I manage to reach up with my free hand and still her roaming fingers, wrapping my wrist around her hand to stop the upward climb. Her skin is burning hot under my touch, and her fingers are doing things to my pulse that I can't put into words.
My chest is heaving, my jaw aching from how hard I'm clenching my teeth just to keep from pulling her against my chest right here in front of the barman.
"Stop," I mutter, though the word has no weight behind it.
She smirks, telling me that she knows exactly what she's doing to me. "I can feel what you're feeling, too," she says softly. "You're vibrating."
Right in front of my eyes, the playfulness vanishes. The lazy, seductive curve of her mouth slips away, and I watch as she seems to grow incredibly sad right in front of me.
I recognize that look.
I see it every morning.
The light in her blue eyes dims, a dark, heavy shadow settling over her face that makes her look fragile.
My chest tightens despite myself. "What's wrong?" I ask.
She looks down at our hands, her fingers flexing against my wrist. "I've always heard about it," she whispers, her voice cracking just a fraction before she pulls it back together.
"Heard about what?"
"Sizzling chemistry. The kind of heat that makes you forget your own name. I always thought it was something people made up in books so they wouldn't have to face how boring the real world is. I never thought I'd actually get to experience it."
For a second she looks younger. Not younger in years. Younger in hope. Like there was a version of her once that believed extraordinary things could happen. A version of life eventually talked out of.
The look disappears so fast I almost convince myself I imagined it.
Almost.
"Much less in a place like this."
I look at her, taking in the sharp line of her nose, the pale skin of her neck, the way her red hair is slipping out of its pin to cling to her temple from the humidity, and I know I will give her whatever she wants without thinking twice, as long as it wipes the sadness away from her face.
"What do you want?" I ask, my voice dropping until it's just between us. "Now that you've met someone like that. What do you want to do with it?"
She lifts her chin, holding my gaze with a clarity that tells me the alcohol isn't the only thing driving her right now. There's a choice being made behind those blue eyes, a hard, definitive line being drawn in the dirt.
"I want to explore it," she says, her voice steady and unblinking. "I want to see how far it goes. But I'm not looking for a relationship. I don't have room for one. I don't have the time for it."
I place her hand back down on the wood, my palm flattening over hers as I lean forward, closing the distance between us until I can see the tiny gold flecks in her irises. The scent of her is absolute torture at this distance.
"Neither am I," I tell her, my voice thick. "I'm not looking for a relationship either, sweetheart."
Her eyes narrow slightly, her gaze tracking the hard lines of my face, looking for the lie. She doesn't find one.
"Are you from around here?" she asks, her head tilting to the side.
I shake my head once. "No. Just here on business."
She tilts her head further, a small, dark smile touching the corners of her mouth, a smile that looks more like a dare than an invitation. "Then if I fuck you tonight," she says, the seductive look coming back, "we might never meet again."
I nod, my throat suddenly too tight to speak. "Yeah. That's how it works."
"Perfect," she whispers, her fingers tightening around mine one last time before she slides off her barstool, her charcoal dress shifting against her thighs. She looks back at me over her shoulder, her blue eyes wide and dark in the amber light. "Do you want to get a room?"
I don't know her name. I don't know why she's drinking like she's trying to erase something.
But for the first time in a long time, I want to know.
That realization hits harder than the whiskey. Because wanting things has never ended particularly well for me.
I should say no.
I don't.