Page 15 of Breaking the Cowboy's Rules

“We talking about whiskey, or we talking about something else?”

Challenge uncurled deep in her belly and she looked around, blinking with interest. “Let’s start with the whiskey, then see where the night takes us.”

*

Bodhi liked thatplan. A lot.

Her contradictions intrigued him.

She was beautiful but artless.

She had a rockin’ body but didn’t use it to seduce him.

She had a boldness that played hide-and-seek with a hesitancy that made her seem cautious at times, like a fawn walking on ice.

And he could see in her expressive eyes a calculation revealing that she was thinking the whole time. Trying to get a bead on him even as he worked to figure her out. Two of them circling each other, feinting verbally.

What would it take to get her out of her head?

What would it take to get me out of mine?

And was that even possible? The fear and despair, twin stallions that had galloped into his life last August, pawed at the edges of his mind and snorted.

Not now. He didn’t want to think about any of that now.

“Whiskey.” He swept his glass up and looked into her eyes—what color were they? Green? Hazel? It was hard to tell in the bar. “Responsible for many bad behaviors.”

“Are you speaking from personal experience?”

“No.” He kept himself locked down tight always.

“I’m taking the whiskey’s side,” she murmured. “The drinkers are responsible for their decisions and behaviors, good or bad.”

“Hear that, whiskey? You have an advocate.” He swirled the amber liquid in the glass. He’d been trying to figure out what color sweater she was wearing. Unusual and only one woman in a couple hundred could pull it off. She’d look like fire in the color of whiskey.

She followed suit, swirling hers.

“Is it like wine—you swirl it?”

“At your peril. My cousin Beck says it smells like a burning hospital.”

“Call the marketing department.”

“Laphroaig was founded in 1818 on the southern coast of the Island of Islay. It has a unique smoky taste that’s derived from burning the malted barley over peat that’s found on the island.”

She swirled but didn’t sniff.

“The peat gives it its bold and rich smoky taste, and there’s a hint of salt and citrus.”

“I just got fire when I shot it.”

“Then I suggest a sip, my—” He broke off. Every man she’d ever met had probably been shoveling compliments and synonyms for hot and beautiful on her since puberty. “Dragon apprentice.”

Her lips, just touching the rim of the glass, ghosted in a smile.

“Dragon,” she whispered. “But not a beautiful one.”

“Beautiful is too bland, like drinking water instead of whiskey.”

---