Page 6 of Just This Once

I smiled as I slid the porter in front of me. “Thank you.”

Whip winked, and butterflies tangled in a riot inside my stomach. I took a sip to settle my nerves. “So you weren’t kidding, were you?”

He slid onto the stool next to me. “About what?”

I deepened my voice and leaned forward. “My family only sits on the east side.”

He chuckled at my impersonation. “Oh. No, definitely wasn’t joking about that.” He swiped a hand down his thick denim-clad thigh. “The name of this place, the Grudge Holder, comes from a long-standing feud between two families in town—the Kings and the Sullivans.”

I leaned forward on the stool, resting my chin in my hand and widening my eyes. “Tell. Me. Everything.”

The rumble of his deep laugh had heat pooling between my thighs, and I gently scissored my legs beneath the table to keep from squirming.

He shrugged. “Run-of-the-mill, small-town bullshit. Ages ago our families decided they hated each other, and now we spend ridiculous time and effort out-pranking each other. I guess we’ve never gotten it out of our systems.” He paused, his beer halfway to his mouth. “Though my sister Sylvie has come the closest. She’s with Duke Sullivan, so they sit in the middle now.”

“Oh, I bet your parents loved that.” My laughter died when Whip’s shoulders stiffened at the mention of his parents. I also didn’t miss the subtle twitch at the corner of his eye.

Apparently talking about parents is a no-fly zone. Noted.

I quickly redirected, grasping for the lighthearted mood we’d been enjoying. “So if your families hate each other so much, why not just go to separate bars? Avoid it altogether.”

The mischief was back in Whip’s piercing slate eyes. “Well, that would kind of take all the fun out of it, wouldn’t it?”

I laughed before taking a sip of my beer, letting the subtle vanilla and malt flavors melt over my tongue. “Yeah, I guess you’re right about that.”

I looked around the bar once more. If you didn’t know about the feud, an outsider would likely see a typical dance hall, but upon further inspection, the divide in the crowd was pretty obvious.

“Okay, so give me an example.” I sat up straighter. “Tell me about a prank that you’ve pulled.”

He eyed me carefully, his lips gently pursing as he considered my question. “Hmm,” he hummed. “How do I know you’re not a Sullivan spy? Using your charm and beauty to unravel all our secrets?”

My cheeks warmed at his subtle compliment, but I feigned shock, letting my fingertips drag across my collarbone. “Me? A spy?” I blinked innocently.

Whip shook his head and scoffed. “You may not be a spy, but you damn sure are dangerous.”

Pleasure thrummed through my veins.When was the last time I’d been so at ease in a man’s presence?I had almost forgotten what it was like to flirt andlet gofor a minute.

I honestly couldn’t recall the last time I’d felt so free. Whip was confident and sexy. Funny. And somehow his attention made me feel as if we were the only two souls in that run-down bar. He made me feel at ease. Comfortable in my own skin.Electric.

When the music changed to a popular country song that had been playing on repeat over the radio, I clapped my hands together and hopped from the stool. “Dance with me.”

Whip took a sip of his beer before setting the glass down in front of him, but he didn’t stand. I held up my hands. “Or does dancing go against some cool-guy code I don’t know about?”

He chuckled and stood next to me, letting his fingertips drag from the inside of my elbow to my palm in one smooth movement as he leaned in. “Trust me. Being seen with a woman like you makes me the coolest guy in this shithole.”

I laughed as Whip twirled me toward the dance floor. My feet stumbled, but he managed to guide me into a rhythm, and our unlikely two-step wasn’t half bad. He held one hand out, the other banded around my waist as we moved with the music.As we danced, Whip whispered town secrets in my ear, sharing stories of the regulars—townies, he called them—as we wore a path on that old oak floor.

I wondered whether he would have a funny story about my parents if they had been there.

The music changed again, and a moody, bluesy number crooned from the speakers. Without missing a beat, Whip pulled me closer. His hard body pressed up against mine, and I stared up at his chiseled jawline. He rested my hand in the small space between our bodies, holding it close over his chest. His heart thudded against my fingertips.

Did he feel this too?

His warm, calloused palm grazed mine, and tingles swept across my skin. Minutes melted into hours, and I was drowning in this mysterious stranger.

Something about him was so familiar and comforting, yet all together exciting and intoxicating. By the time I came up for air, the bartender announced the last call—our drinks, long abandoned.

Whip offered me the extra warmth of his coat, and this time I slipped my arms into it without hesitation. As I followed him out of the bar, I stared at his chiseled back and pulled the collar to my nose, filling my lungs with his masculine scent of soap and sage.

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