Page 32 of The County Line
He studies me, his gaze steady as I blink a few times, trying to act normal and not get caught in his magnetic pull. But it’s no use. Between him and the alcohol, I’m already a goner. I’m not even sure if my questions are making sense.
“Yes,” he says, his voice low and even.
I nod, doing my best to keep the conversation going without sounding too giggly. “Lydia seems to like you too. I’m sure she’s thrilled to have you volunteering there every week.”
His brows furrow like he has no idea what I’m hinting at. “Sure.”
I tilt my head, pressing on despite his clipped responses. “Don’t you want to get back out there in the dating world... shoot your shot?” I lower my voice so that only he can hear me, “Maybe get your dick sucked?” I’m giggling now, fully aware I’m pushing his buttons and acting totally immature. But I can’t figure him out—why he isn’t interested in dating, or what he meant earlier about not wanting to mess around. The guy’s been locked up for four freaking years. You’d think he’d be desperate for some action. I know I would be.
Plus, Lydia is gorgeous, kind and sweet, even if she might not know how to handle all the man that Colt is.Okay, it’s not like I would know how to either.But I like to think I might be able to.
His voice drops, a thread of warning in his tone. “I think I can make that decision for myself.”
Now I’m irritated. I straighten in my seat, mimicking a stern voice as I deepen my tone. “As your parole officer, Ihighly recommendyou find a hobby—and that hobby involves loosening up and hooking up with a stranger tonight.” I lift a finger and swirl it dramatically in the air before slamming it against the table like a gavel before bursting into laughter.
Lydia slides up to the table between us with a wide grin on her face before Colt can respond to my ridiculous demands. “Hey you two. Are you up for another round of darts?”
“Molly…” Colt cautions as if he can read my mind.
“Sure!” I chirp ignoring him a little too enthusiastically, as I push off the barstool—only to misjudge my footing and nearly go sprawling to the floor.
Before I can hit the ground, Colt’s hands are on me, catching me with ease. One strong arm wraps around my waist, holding me suspended just long enough for my heart to trip over itself. I look up, breath stuttering, only to find his gaze locked on mine—stormy, intense, and definitelynotamused by my antics.
My stomach flips. He’s holding me a little too tightly, his grip firm and unyielding, and I can tell by the tension in his jaw that he’s not thrilled about my current state. Honestly? I probably deserve it.
He sets me upright, steadying me for a beat before standing back, but his glare lingers. Heat prickles over my skin, embarrassment creeping in.
“Uh—actually, on second thought…” I clear my throat, needing an escape. “I think I need a minute. Bathroom. Just—uh, I have to pee.”
She nods, shooting me a knowing smile before sauntering off, looking far more composed than I feel. For someone who’s had her fair share of drinks tonight, she carries it well. That or they are all virgins. Actually, Iknowthey are virgins.
Meanwhile, insecurity slithers up my spine. I feel unsteady—not just from the alcohol, but from the weight of Colt’s scrutiny. Suddenly, I’m too aware of how ridiculous I must look, how childish I must seem taunting him and pushing him to ask Lydia out. And worse? The familiar, suffocating feeling of foolishness around men creeps in, tightening like a fist around my ribs.
“Molly,” Colt warns again.
“I just need a second,” I snap, my tone sharp with frustration. Steadying myself on my feet, I spin on my heel and weave through the crowded bar toward the bathrooms. I finally reach the long, dimly lit hallway, but instead of going inside like I should—breaking the seal and pulling myself together so that I can stop acting so immature—I lean against the cold, cement wall. Pressing my back firmly against it, I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, willing my racing heart to calm down.
What the hell is happening out there?
Between Colt’s touch and the alcohol clouding my head, I can’t make sense of anything. I try to steady myself, focusing on my breath—slow, measured inhales—the cool press of cement beneath me, grounding me, keeping me tethered to reality. But the moment is delicate, fragile, like I’m holding myself together with frayed threads.
So much has changed. And yet, here I am, back in the town that shaped me, spending the evening with the one man who has always felt like home. There’s something poetic about it—something devastating, too.
Then I feel it. A shift in the air. A presence.
My eyes snap open, and he’s there. Colt.
His broad frame blocks out everything else, his body radiating heat in the small space that’s between us. He’s too close, too solid, too much.
“Colt,” I breathe, his name tumbling from my lips like a prayer, soft and aching. For a split second, I wonder if I’ve conjured him in my drunken haze. But real or not, I can’t stop myself from drinking him in—those strong hazel eyes, the sharp cut of his jaw, the slight scruff on his face. Broad shoulders, tapered waist. Power wrapped in control.
And God help me, I want to unravel it.
“You’re drunk,” he says flatly. It’s not a question, but I nod anyway.
“I am,” I admit, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Let me drive you home.”
