When she was little, she’d tried ski jumping once at a tiny resort in Idaho. In retrospect, it had been the very smallest jump for the very smallest kids. No more than five feet high, but she could still remember standing at the top of that slope, trying to trust that gravity didn’t always have to be a brutal lesson. Her heart had beat so hard she’d felt her whole body pulse with it. She felt that now. She’d edged forward too far and there was no way to stop.
His gaze dipped down her body so quickly she almost missed it. “Are you scared right now?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“In a good way?” His pale gray eyes weren’t icy anymore. Now they glinted like metal. Jesus, he looked dangerous. He should ditch the shades and glare criminals into obedience. Criminals like her. She had the sudden, stupid idea that she’d like to speed past his sheriff’s truck again, as soon as possible. Right now. Tonight.
Her nipples tightened, and she was torn between hoping he could tell and praying he couldn’t. This was crazy. Her pulse was thumping so fast she actually felt light-headed.
He leaned a little closer and when he set his hand on the table, she was very aware it was only two inches from hers. Though their hands looked so different it was almost hard to believe they served the same functions. His skin was a deep bronze next to her paleness. His nails were cut so short they didn’t even approach the tips of his fingers.
Instead of his long-sleeved uniform shirt, tonight he wore a blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms sculpted from tight muscle. Hair glinted along his arm, down to his thick wrist, and she noticed that he still wore a watch. She rarely saw men at the bar with watches anymore, but his looked old and sturdy, as if it had been passed on from his father.
She looked at that hand and she desperately wanted to touch it.
“I’m not really scary, you know,” he said. Was that an invitation? But no. He probably didn’t know that she was staring at his hand and wondering what he’d do if she stroked a thumb over his knuckles. Two scars stood out in pale contrast to his tan. She wanted to touch them. She wanted to touch him. Tonight.
The desire enveloped her with sudden, overwhelming completeness. It was just that simple. For the first time in her life, Jenny understood the animal urge that had strangers pairing up every night. She’d watched it a hundred times and always shaken her head at the stupidity of going home with a person you’d just met. But now she got it. The stupidity didn’t matter. It wasn’t a factor. It wasn’t an impediment. It meant nothing, because sometimes it felt good to do something you shouldn’t.
She wanted that. Her nerves tingled with the compulsion. So Jenny slid her hand across the two inches of faux wood that separated their skin, and she stroked her thumb over his knuckles.
His fingers twitched, and she almost jerked her hand away. But that would likely ruin her attempt to be seductive, jumping as if she’d just startled a snake. His hand started to curl into a fist before he flatte
ned it to the table.
Jenny’s heart was tripping over itself, trying to beat faster than was physically possible. She dared to meet his gaze, but looked quickly away as she felt a nervous smile flit over her face. His eyes were just so…intense. “Now you look really scary. Maybe you should smile again.”
“Maybe I should. But I’m worried you won’t take that class if you’re not scared of me.”
“Is that what you’re worried about?” she asked, wondering if he really was. Because at this moment, she wanted him thinking about very different things. “My little driving problem?”
“No. I’m worried that you could be a much bigger problem than I imagined.”
Smiling now, she let herself look up. His mouth was still an intimidatingly flat line, but the edges of his eyes were tight with amusement, as if he were just about to smile and was holding back.
“Jenny…” he said.
She had to look away. She looked too eager already. Grinning at him, letting her pinky finger rest against his as if she’d just happened to set her hand there. Play it cool, she ordered herself. Or coolish. Even something that could very generously be thought of as possibly cool by a kind observer.
Was he about to propose something? Ask her when she got off work? Ask if he could see her afterward? He could. He could see as much of her as he wanted, because she’d never felt this kind of lust before.
Her gaze darted over the room, looking for something calm to latch onto, but her eyes caught on something decidedly not calm. That was no surprise on pitcher night. It was a saloon, after all. People came here to let loose and have fun and sometimes even cause trouble. But this was personal.
Her eyes widened at the man standing in the doorway. She shook her head.
“Maybe I could—” Nate started, but she didn’t hear the rest.
“Oh, no,” she breathed, as she watched the guy stop four feet inside the door and nod as if the place pleased him.
She slid her hand away from Nate’s. “Oh, no,” she groaned.
“Hey,” Nate said, the tone of his voice suddenly no-nonsense. “What’s wrong?”
Everything, she thought. Everything was very wrong. She should have run for the state line after all.
* * *
NATE FOLLOWED THE LINE of her gaze across the room, his muscles tensing to take action. But despite the dozens of people packed into the space, he didn’t see any reason for alarm. There was laughter and flirtation, and maybe a slightly tense conversation between the couple at the next table, but nothing that set off warning bells.