Hot to the Touch

Uh-oh. He was in trouble.

She looked away, then back.

Boom. Again. Stronger this time. The rest of Justin’s words sang in Troy’s brain: This is it. This is her. I just met the rest of my life.

Jeez. Get a grip.

She looked away again and continued eating, not with her previous sexy immersion into the experience, each bite contemplated, taken, then savored, but robotically, unvaryingly, bites brought to her mouth, chewed, swallowed, repeated, as if she were seriously rattled. As if she’d just locked eyes with destiny and wasn’t sure she liked what she saw. Unless Troy was simply projecting what he wanted her to be feeling.

He sipped his drink, sipped again, needing the courage more than the buzz. The last guy who tried to get on base with her struck out before the pitch was even completed. Troy could suffer the same fate no matter how intense their eye contact had been.

Or he could not.

Another sip, and he’d decided. “Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” his father always said, usually before he was about to try a difficult golf shot, which he generally missed.

So…what to say?

Hi, I’m Troy.

Oh, was that clever.

Can I buy you a drink?

Zero points.

How about them Brewers?

Yeah, right.

You look like someone who really enjoys her food.

Hmm. That wasn’t so bad.

Another check on his neighbor—she was gripping her glass, staring straight ahead, apparently unaware of his continued presence. Hello? Little encouragement here? Even a glance?

Apparently not.

One last sip of arak and he’d do it, no matter what.

Movement caught his eye and he found her this time with wallet in hand.

He took the last sip hastily. “Leaving?”

She stiffened as though the word had cornered her, then turned slowly. This time, though, Troy was prepared for the impact.

Boom.

No, he wasn’t.

“Thought I might.”

“Can I buy you another drink instead?” No, it wasn’t original, but he was working under pressure.

She didn’t answer. She barely moved. For someone who’d been so full of life when she walked in, casting her aura over the entire bar, she’d become oddly colorless and shut down.

He felt unaccountably protective of her, this older woman he knew absolutely nothing about, a woman who seemed more than able to take care of herself, and certainly more than able to answer a yes/no question about wanting a drink.

“No?” He held his breath.

She blinked, as if he’d disturbed some internal debate. Panic flitted over her features, which grew his confidence.

“Or…yes?” He suppressed a smile. Nice to know he had the ability to spark some kind of confused reaction in her. Because she’d done nothing but confuse the hell out of him since she made her entrance.

Miraculously, she put her wallet away, got down from the stool and sauntered toward him, hand held out for a shake. “Yes.”

Yes.

He took her hand. The contact with her skin seemed intimate, familiar and right. He wanted to draw her into his arms and find her mouth. But since all she’d agreed to was a drink, that probably wasn’t a great idea. “My name is—”

“No.” She had a finger up to his lips fast enough to cut him off, startle him and make him want to close his mouth to taste her. “Don’t tell me your name.”

“Why, you want to guess?”

Her pretty brows drew together. “I don’t want to know it.”

“Why not?” Was she married?

“Female prerogative.”

“Okay. Have a seat?” He gestured unnecessarily to the stool next to him—she was already climbing on—and he caught her scent. Frying oil? Herbs? Roasted meat? She’d been in a kitchen somewhere.

“Would you like another arak?”

“Please.”

He signaled the friendly, efficient bartender and pointed to Darcy; the man nodded and got down the bottle and a clean glass.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“No.” The word came out as a simple statement of fact.

Troy regarded her with amusement. “So I guess asking what you do is out of the question, too?”

“Do we really need the details?”

“What’s wrong with them?”

“Sometimes they get in the way.”