Page 82 of Training the Heart

He definitely fucking did.

My breathing speeds up as Wade’s lips come down, dangerously close to mine. My eyes flit around the table, but no one is even paying attention to us in the dark, noisy bar. He leans into my ear, his deep voice crystal clear, and he whispers, “Everything we do is only for us. What happens between me and you doesn’t belong to any of them, but if you ever had any doubt what I see when I look at you …” He smirks, then adds, “You’re going to look so fucking pretty wearing my collar, Ivy.” And he squeezes my thigh tight, sliding his fingers under my dress.

My pussy throbs in anticipation as I try to stay calm.

“That thought scare you?” he whispers. “Or make you want to beg me for it?”

“A little of both,” I whisper back truthfully.

“If you want to beg, you know there’s only one word I need to hear,” he says.

His eyes lock with mine,mercyon the tip of my tongue and I’ve only been here five minutes. The bar fades away around us until Ginger’s voice breaks our trance.

“I need another. Where is that man?” She smirks, draining her glass.

“Asher’s bringing refills for all of you,” Cole tells her as he slides in on cue and crunches on a pretzel.

“You know me so well.” Ginger nudges him with her shoulder as he rolls his eyes.

“I just know how fast you drink. It’s been ten whole minutes, you’re off your game tonight.”

“What are you insinuating? Bite your tongue, please. In the last four days I’ve had three Christmas luncheons, sick kids in every corner of the classroom, break-ups, teen drama, and twenty-four ‘If William Shakespeare was alive today’ papers to grade. Don’t shame me because I’m a woman who knows how to let loose after a long week, Cole Ashby. You’re better than that.”

Cole grins at her and holds out his upturned palm with a handful of pretzels.

“Aww, darlin’, I’m so sorry,” Cole says to her, his voice low and slow, yet somehow still taunting to her.

Ginger eyes him up and takes a pretzel from his outstretched hand.

“I’ll take that apology, thank you very much, and keep them coming,” she mutters as he slides the bowl over to her.

“When does Mabes come home from Gemma’s for Christmas?” Wade asks Cole, turning Cole’s mood instantly sour at the mention of his ex-wife.

“Tomorrow. I’m not giving up the Christmas Eve traditions Mabel is used to just because all of a sudden Gemma wants to pretend to be an adult and parent her. If she’s still a parent next Christmas, we’ll talk about splitting the time proper.”

“I fink she’s up to sumfing,” Ginger says as she crunches on her pretzels. “Out of nowhere, after almost five years of being absent, she has a boyfriend and is a serious mama type? Uh-uh, mark my words, something is up,” she continues.

“I agree,” Wade says. “Who is this guy, anyway?”

“Brent fucking Wilson. Cop. Arrogant prick. Hit on CeCelast summer,” Nash says as he slides into the booth with the bartender, Asher Reed, close behind, carrying our margaritas.

I haven’t had a lot of interactions with Asher, but I watch as he approaches. He might be the only man in this town as tall and as big as Wade. I remember Ginger saying once that he was the town fire chief. Dark Irish looks with wide deep gray eyes, and I don’t think an inch of his visible skin is left un-inked in charcoals and black aside from his face. He’s covered from his jaw to his wrists. His scruff on his face is thick. He looks like a larger and much more dangerous version of Chris Hemsworth inExtraction. Of course my mind goes to action movies as the basis of comparison.

His voice is deep and intimidating as he sets our drinks down, the slight Irish accent noticeable.

“Four strawberry margs,” he says as he slides each of us one.

I can’t be sure, but for a brief moment I think he slips something under Olivia’s as he passes it to her, but it’s so subtle I wonder if my mind is playing tricks on me. Olivia looks up at him and meets his gaze for a fleeting moment, then looks back at the table. I didn’t even realize they knew each other.

“Goddamn, it’s colder than a witch’s titty in a brass bra out there!” Papa Dean calls as he and Mama Jo bound up to our table, snowflakes dusting his cowboy hat.

“Jesus, Pop. Way to make an entrance,” Cole says as Nash gets up to slide two more chairs over to our already overstuffed table then disappears toward the front of the bar.

“Gotta make my presence known somehow. Can’t let Blake Shelton here steal the show all night long.”

He pats Wade on the shoulder, and I smother a grin.

“You been drinking? What the fuck are you talking about, old man?” Wade says as the table snickers collectively.

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