Tangle (Dogwood Lane 2) - Page 38
“Is he married?”
“Nope. He agrees with me.”
“On what?”
“That there’s too much pressure to marry and settle down. It’s like you just get a handle on your hormones, if you’re lucky, and all of a sudden, you have to pick what you’ll do for the rest of your life and who you’ll mate with for the next fifty, sixty years. It’s asinine.”
“I hate the phrase ‘mate with,’” I say, making a face. “I get this image . . .” I shiver. “I can’t.”
“What phrase should I use? ‘Making love’?” He bats his eyelashes at me. “Let me give you a tip: never trust a guy who says he wants to make love to you.”
“Why? It’s so romantic.” I bat my lashes back at him. “A little cabin in the woods with white sheets and rose petals sprinkled all around . . .”
I open my eyes to see him looking at me, unimpressed.
“When a guy is thinking about taking you to bed, they aren’t thinking about whispering love notes in your ear.” His hand moves discreetly to his groin. He shifts in his seat, moving his eyes back to the road. “They’re thinking about the curves of your body and how you’ll feel wrapped around them.”
My thighs press together, my stomach clenching so hard I almost groan as I immediately picture him hovering over me. I divert my gaze from his and out the passenger’s side window.
“Let me give you a tip,” I say. “Talking like that won’t help lessen a girl’s attraction to you.”
“Ah, do you like a little dirty talk, Miss Raynor?” He chuckles, grabbing my thigh. His fingertips press into the denim covering my legs in one swift movement. It’s a reaction, a playful gesture he didn’t preplan; the way his mouth hangs ever-so-slightly open at the contact makes it obvious.
My gaze flies to the spot where he’s touching me. The embers aflame in my belly burn hotter. He pulls away, but it does nothing to quell the riot inside me.
This isn’t a date. He’s just a flirt. He lives in Nashville. This isn’t a date. He probably talks like this with every girl. This isn’t a date.
“We’re here,” he says, his voice a little rougher than before.
When I look up, I realize we are at Colby’s Steakhouse in Rockery.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
TREVOR
After you,” I say, holding the door open for Haley.
She strolls by me, her purse tossed over her shoulder like we do this every weekend. I usually hate it when a woman gets a certain level of comfort with me. It’s always a precursor to particular behaviors—behaviors I have no interest in entertaining.
Strangely, this time, it just feels normal. Easy. All right. Nice.
“Reservation for Kelly,” I say. I slide up beside Haley, putting thoughts of anything other than having her by my side out of my mind. Even if it’s just for these couple of hours, I’m going to enjoy this weird sense of peace.
“Right this way.” The hostess grabs two menus and escorts us through the restaurant.
The place is decorated like a log cabin with little country sayings and pictures on the walls. The booths are covered in a burnt-orange vinyl, probably to make it easier to clean up after the families filling most seats.
My hand goes to the small of Haley’s back as we venture through the other patrons. She glances at me out of the corner of her eye and gives me a shy smile unlike the ones I usually get from her.
The scent of vanilla ripples off her body. It winds around me, almost luring me closer to her. My fingers press into the fabric of her shirt, craving the contact, as we approach an open booth in the back.
I remind myself to behave, to remember who she is and who she isn’t. She’s not a woman I’m taking out as a precursor to a quick fuck after. She’s not that at all.
That might just be why I like her.
And that’s just plain weird.
“Here you go.” The menus are dropped on the table. “Your server is Delia, and she’ll be with you in a few minutes.”
“Sounds good.”
I wait for Haley to sit before taking my seat across from her.
“I figured a steakhouse was a safe bet,” I say, resting my forearms on the table. “With all the food issues you didn’t have . . .”
She puts her purse on the chair beside her. “I didn’t want to seem too picky. I hate when people list off all the things they refuse to eat. If it’s a food allergy or something, I get it. That’s different. But if you’re just making my life hard by refusing to eat beef that’s not grass fed . . .” She shakes her head. “I’m not into that kind of pickiness.”
“Lorene promised me this was a good spot.”
“Ah, I heard about you and Lorene,” she says, leaning my way. “I heard through the grapevine you were doing chores for her and you took her to breakfast.”
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