Page 43 of Riding the Storm
“Look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
I glance his way. Reaching for my abandoned cocktail.
He leans closer, his breath brushing my ear. “Like what, Chuck?”
My pulse skips, and I turn to him. We’re nose to nose, and his eyes slide down to my lips.
“Like this?”
The words land low and rough, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe.
I force a smirk. “Exactly.”
I should shut this down. I should stand up, walk away, do literally anything other than sit here, letting him get under my skin.
“I have to pee,” I say, jumping up abruptly.
He grins, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to flash a dimple in the shadow of hair along his jaw. One I didn’t notice before.
Dammit.
“Be right back.”
She’s gone, and I have to force myself not to follow her.
One minute, Charli was sitting across from me—cheeks flushed, eyes so dark that I could barely tell where the blue ended and the black began—and the next, she was muttering something about the bathroom and slipping away into the crowd.
It shouldn’t bother me.
But it does.
Because I know damn well she didn’t run off because she needed to pee.
She ran because of me.
Because of the teasing.
Because of the tension building between us.
My pulse is still going wild from it—from the sound of her breath catching. I haven’t been this affected by a woman in a long time.
The band’s still playing, and people are still laughing, clinking bottles, shouting to be heard. But I barely register any of it. I’m sitting here, staring at the empty stool across from me, her half-drunk cocktail sweating on the table, wishing she hadn’t bolted.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, try to shake it off. This is ridiculous. I came here tonight to unwind, to meet the locals, not to get twisted up over the stubborn-as-hell woman who’d been bossing me around like a schoolboy the last couple of weeks.
But then I remember the way she held my gaze as she danced for me—that flash of something she tried to hide—and it hits me in the gut.
Yeah, I’m in trouble.
“Hey there, cowboy.”
The voice is syrupy sweet, and when I look up, it’s thegirl from the bar earlier. The one who was on the arm of one of my circuit buddies not that long ago. I didn’t even get her name.
She’s smiling down at me now, confidence all over her face, one hand resting on the back of the seat Charli vacated. “You look lost, sitting here all alone,” she says, cocking her head toward the door. “My girlfriends and I are about to head out. You should come have a nightcap with us.”
Her tone leaves no doubt about what kind of invitation that is. Usually, I’d take her up on it. I like women. Especially the hot, willing ones. I’ve spent my fair share of nights indulging my primal urges. But the thought doesn’t appeal to me tonight.
