Strong and Steady
He looked down at his feet then back at me. “Yeah, I know.” His voice was quiet, almost resigned.
“Wait.” I shook my head, held up my hand. “You think I’m… no way. Have you seen some of the women here tonight? They’re so… young.”
His dark eyes raked over me, from my—most likely—wayward hair to the
tips of my polished toes and back. “And you're old?” He didn't give me time to respond. “Trust me, I’m right where I want to be.”
Oh. I couldn’t help the little internal sigh at his words.
He leaned forward once again, rasped a hand over his chiseled jaw. He'd probably shaved this morning, but he needed to do so again. Not that I minded. I wanted to run my fingers over his whiskers and see if they were soft or prickly. “Let me start over. Okay?”
I cocked my head and noticed his chagrined expression. I nodded, curious.
“I’m Gray, Paul’s personal trainer.”
“Trainer? I thought…”
Paul’s trainer? Besides the snap shirt, or beneath it, he looked like one. Fit. But fit like he lived that way, not just by pumping iron. His arms were corded with muscle, his hands rugged, fingers long. With the scar and tattoos, he looked downright dangerous, more like a fighter than a simple trainer. Perhaps he’d competed in the past. Boxing? Rodeo? He looked like he could toss bales of hay with one hand tied behind his back. Ride a bull for eight seconds and see another day.
“That I wrangle cows all day?”
I bit my lip, then smiled. “Yeah.”
What did I know about cowboy stuff? The last time I’d ridden a horse was in camp when I was eleven. Brant Valley wasn’t a metropolis like Denver, but it was still a city. Gray didn’t fit any mold my mind tried fitting him into. I just knew what I could see, what he told me. With the combination of brooding danger and a wicked smile, he was lethal to my senses and made my heart skip a beat.
He held out his hand, and I reached for it, shook it, but he didn't let go right away. Instead, he kept our fingers touching, held the connection.
“I’m Emory. Christy’s friend.”
“Emory,” he repeated, as if trying out my name, finally letting my hand go. “There we go. I didn’t screw that up.”
I rolled my eyes and smiled—I couldn’t help it—as I tucked my hand back in my lap. Every time he set me on edge, he put me at ease. “I guess I should officially thank you for rescuing me.” I angled my head toward the restaurant.
He nodded. “Paul asked if I’d step in with his cousin. Told me he was a slime ball.”
My eyes widened. “Paul said slime ball?”
Gray grinned, and the little lines at the corners of his eyes deepened. “He had a more… choice word, but I don't swear in front of a lady.”
The man was hot and a gentleman. What was wrong with him? Nothing that I could see.
“Even across the room, both of us could tell you weren’t enjoying yourself, and when the guy put his hand on your arm and you flinched…”
He didn't finish the sentence, but I saw the way his jaw clenched.
I looked down at my fingers. I offered a noncommittal sound because there wasn’t much to say about Bob/Bill. “I should have ditched him before I needed rescuing. I mean, he thought he was eating real oysters.”
The corner of his mouth tipped up. “But you’re too nice, aren’t you, Emory?” he commented, as he watched me smooth my dress over my thighs. “He didn’t do anything, did he? Say anything to hurt you?”
I glanced up at him through my lashes. “Are you going to go beat him up if he did?”
He shrugged. “Maybe. At least teach him some manners.”
Wow, he was intense—his complete focus on me worried about me. It was exhilarating. With his dark eyes on mine, I couldn’t look away. I had no doubt if I told him the guy had put his hand on my waist, Gray would have gone back inside and broke his fingers.
“No, he didn't do anything. Really,” I added because he didn’t seem to believe me. I gave a small, dry laugh. “I could have gone to his room with him.”
Both of Gray’s brows went up at my mocking tone. “I can take you back if you want.” He thumbed over his shoulder toward the bar. I could see a humorous gleam in his eye.