"You really want coffee?"
"Don't you?"
She licked her lips, and he realized that he didn't want coffee at all. He wanted that tongue in his mouth. Or other more interesting places.
He shifted, his jeans suddenly a bit too snug.
"It's just that--I, well..."
Even in the dark, he could see that her cheeks had turned bright red.
"I kind of thought that coffee was a euphemism," she whispered.
Oh, dear Lord, he was going to come right then.
"Where do you live?" he asked. "And where's your car?"
Conveniently, it turned out that she'd come with a friend. Even more conveniently, Nolan's car was only one block over. And best of all, she lived in Clarksville, a neighborhood right at the edge of downtown, in a rental just behind Sweetish Hill Bakery.
"This is cute," he said, after she'd fumbled her key into the lock and turned on the lights.
"If by cute you mean tiny, then yes it is." She turned in a circle, indicating the dollhouse-size house with its tidy, cozy living room with just enough room for a love seat, a recliner, and a television. Several hardback books were stacked neatly on the coffee table, including one called Of Human Bondage, which probably wasn't about what the name suggested. Her shoes fit perfectly into a small bench with cubbyholes by the door, and blankets filled baskets tucked into odd corners.
"There's also a kitchen and a bedroom," she continued, waving vaguely. "And that's pretty much it. I think it was a guesthouse for the house next door, but I don't have the history. I'm only renting." She shrugged. "It's big enough for me, and it's close to downtown. I work at a financial management company in the Frost Bank building. And, oh my God, I'm rambling, aren't I?"
She was, and although chatty women usually irritated him, he thought he could listen to her all night. "Do you have a coffee maker?" He really wanted her sober. To the point that he was on the verge of breaking his strict first date rule. Tipsy was fair, right? Because at the moment, tipsy seemed perfectly reasonable for a first kiss, first fuck, first everything.
Except, of course, it wasn't. He'd laid down strict rules for himself after Amanda had come to him in tears at the end of her second semester at UT. She'd gotten drunk, slept with a guy, and she'd been terrified that she was pregnant--or worse.
She hadn't been--thank God. But he'd been the one she'd turned to, begging him to keep her secret from their parents and their friends. Even from Jenna, to whom Amanda told everything. He'd seen her fear and her shame. She'd had her whole life planned out, and she was terrified that she'd knocked it off track because one stupid choice after a night of drinking.
And it wasn't even that she'd forgotten to use birth control. Even drunk, she'd insisted the guy wear a condom. And he had--but he'd been drunk, too, and, as Amanda had called it with rare humor under the circumstances, they'd suffered a "massive
wardrobe failure."
"But it's not even that," Amanda had said. "I'm mad because it wasn't me. I mean, if I'd been with Dan," she continued, naming a previous boyfriend, "then drunk just makes it fun. But I didn't know this guy. So it was this talking." She pointed to the back of her head. "Some hormone center. But that's not me. And I didn't really want him. I mean, I didn't really know him."
They'd sat there in the Student Health Center as she shared her regrets and her fears. And even though she wasn't pregnant or infected, Nolan vowed right then and there to never, ever, sleep with a woman who was drunk, condom or not. He didn't want to risk hurting her. More than that, he wanted a woman in his bed to be there for him, not because her hormones were on overdrive.
He was almost thirty now, and over the years, he'd walked away from more than his share of tipsy women. But, dammit, he didn't want to walk away from Shelby. "A coffee maker," he repeated. "Do you have one?"
She blinked, then nodded. "Um, I have a Keurig."
"Great. Sit." He pointed to the couch. "Cream? Sugar?"
"In the fridge and by the machine. But I just take it black."
"You got it," he said, then disappeared into a kitchen that was, remarkably, even more organized and tidy than the living room. He found mugs organized by size and color in a cabinet above the Keurig machine. A rack of pods sat beside it, and he selected Columbian for her, figuring that would be stronger than the Hazelnut. And decaf was completely out of the question.
He didn't bother making one for himself, and as soon as the machine stopped sputtering, he grabbed the mug and carried it carefully back into the living room, only to find Shelby on the gray couch, her head back and her eyes closed, a bright green pillow clutched to her chest.
Well, hell.
"Here," he said gently. He considered offering to help her into bed, but decided the risk was too high. Once in her bedroom, he wasn't sure he'd have the strength to leave unless she kicked him out. And he was pretty damn sure she wasn't going to do that.
"Coffee," he said, bending to put it on the coffee table. She opened her eyes--green now, but hadn't they been blue in the bar?--and smiled so sweetly that a lump rose in his throat.
Don't sit. You'll only want to stay.