Page 26 of Catching Sparks

Only when we’ve rounded the bar, out of both viewing and hearing distance of my friends, do I release the thick wrist in my grasp and suck back a breath. The towering man behind me stays silent, watching as I lean my arms on the bar top and flag over the bartender.

Bryce’s ex-girlfriend’s mother saunters over to me, and I realize in an instant why Bryce never did return with our drinks. Annoyance springs to life inside of me as I stare down the old woman and owner of Peakside.

“Good evening, Pamila,” I purr, pasting on an ultra-sweet smile just for her. “Two apple pie shots, please. Heavier on the shot, lighter on the apple.”

“Poppy,” she grunts in greeting before getting to work on the shots.

Such a riveting conversationalist, this one. I wonder if it has anything to do with my terrible relationship with her devil of a daughter after what she did to Bryce or if she just simply doesn’t like me. Oh, who am I kidding? It’s both. The feeling is thoroughly reciprocated.

“Thirsty?” Garrison’s voice drifts from behind me, caressing my flaming neck. His tone is softer than it was just moments ago yet still stiff.

His hand flattens to the wood beside my forearm, close enough I can feel the heat radiating from his skin. I keep still, unbothered, my fingers tapping the bar.

“Parched. But they’re not both for me. One’s for you, City Boy. Consider it a thank you for standing up for me back there. Albeit a bit unnecessary.”

“I don’t do shots.” He ignores my thanks. I don’t care.

“You do tonight.”

His laugh is gruff and deep. Sexy. “No, Poppy. I don’t.”

With as much bravado as I can muster up, I twist to face him, leaving one arm supporting my weight on the bar. “How about just a taste, then? It’s nice and sweet, I promise.”

“What makes you think I like nice and sweet?”

My stomach flutters, excitement flooding my veins like liquid sugar. I cock my head, tugging my lip between my teeth to hide a grin. He moves in closer, the scent of rich cologne flooding the space between us. I don’t take a step back, and I don’t think he expects me to. Not when his eyes flare at our close proximity.

“Aren’t you tired of the same bitter taste, Garrison? Take a step out of your comfort zone with me. Just this once,” I coax, sliding my arm across the bar toward where he’s resting his hand, long fingers splayed and curled slightly.

“Would you take a step out of yours in return?” he asks roughly.

Words aren’t necessary in this moment. There’s no convincing needed, for either him or myself. Both of us know my answer as clear as if I had shouted it across an empty room when I set my hand on his forearm, twirling my fingertip in a soft circle over the soft silk fabric of his shirt. It’s a testing touch, but it’s electric, a current of energy zipping directly between us.

Garrison drops his attention to where we touch, jaw straining from how hard he’s grinding his teeth. I spread my fingers over his arm and tighten my hold just enough to draw his attention back up to my face.

Our eyes connect, and my muscles go lax. Arousal thumps in my core while a needy voice in my mind begs me to let this man be the one to break my dry spell. To take me hard and fast and desperate. Two people driven by a simple, animalistic urge to fuck.

A connection like this would be a crime to ignore. A disservice to the both of us. Right?

Like he can read every filthy thought in my mind, a groaned exhale tears from those plump lips, and his chin tips ever so slightly. Approval. The beginning of an agreement.

“Two apple pie shots. Heavy on the apple, lighter on the shot,” Pamila says, that croak of a voice settling between us like spoiled milk. “That’ll be eleven dollars.”

I wait for Garrison to shove himself backward, away from me, but no, he doesn’t pay Pamila an ounce of attention. It’s like she’s not there at all. He’s still staring at me, expression careful, emotions hidden.

It’s a strain on my willpower to be the one to break contact and meet the waiting glare of the old woman long enough to slide the shots toward us. I reach for my back pocket to grab my bank card when Garrison’s hand presses mine against the swell at the top of my ass, halting my movements.

If I could just shift it a bit lower . . .

“Next time you charge eleven dollars for two shots, ensure sure you’re following the customer’s directions,” he says to Pamila, a thin black card now resting between his fingers.

I stare at that card, at the obvious wealth that’s associated with it and the ease with which he holds it. As if it’s nothing more than a useless piece of plastic.

Pamila blanches a bit beneath his words before she’s quick to jut her chin back to its usual height. With a roll of her eyes, she hands the card machine to Garrison, watching closely when he pays with a tap to the screen. The black card disappears as quickly as it appeared, and then I’m pushing one of the shots toward him, Pamila forgotten.

“If you try this one with me, I’ll try something you like. Sound like a deal?”

He pinches the shot glass between two fingers and lifts it to his nose before sniffing. His nose crinkles. “What I drink is a lot harder than this.”

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