5. Dusty

There is something so compelling about those coppery eyes. Mysterious and sad, even when she’s smiling.

And when she said she didn’t want to be alone, it hit me square between the eyes. I don’t usually feel protective of other women. My sister is about the only one who gets that out of me.

Most women just see me as a good time, which is A-okay by me. I’m not the sort of guy you want to lean on. But for her? I find myself wishing I was.

She reaches out, her delicate finger brushing across my forearm. “What’s this?”

She’s asking about my tattoo, but my brain blinks out, temporarily abandoning me.

Her touch fizzes across my skin, whisking down my spine. I feel my cheeks heat. Everything heats up, for that matter. I clear my throat. “I got it when I was nineteen.”

It’s no bigger than my thumbnail. Just a simple sketch. Black lines, no color. I forget about it most of the time.

“Why a daisy?”

I grin. “I lost a bet.”

She snorts. “No way.”

“Way. I am a man of my word. There’s the proof.”

“Who picked the design?”

“My buddy, Bo.”

I smile at the memory. “He said it matched my winning personality.”

“You aren’t going to believe this.”

She turns on her stool. Slipping her thumb under the waist of her skirt, she tugs it down an inch, exposing the inside of her hip. And there, about the size of a quarter, is a hyper-realistic daisy tattoo. I have to tighten my fist around my glass to keep from reaching out. I want to touch it. Who am I kidding? I want to press my lips to it.

Our eyes meet and some of that desire sparking off me must burn her a bit, because her smile slips. She tugs her skirt back into place. “I always wanted a daisy. I’m a little offended that yours was a punishment for losing a bet.”

Her lips press into a little pout. And so help me, I really want to suck that lower lip into my mouth.

“For what it’s worth, they gave me three choices, and I picked the flower.”

She perks up. “Yeah? What were the other two choices?”

I grimace. “Things you wouldn’t want to show grandma, let’s put it that way.”

She laughs. “I’ll take it, I guess.”

The music outside suddenly cranks up several decibels. She glances at me, brow furrowed, and laughs.

I shake my head. “Tia must have had a word with the band. She was complaining she couldn’t hear the music.”

“Well, we can now.”

Hotel California is piping over the sound system clashing with the Alan Jackson song the cover band is hammering out. Pushing away from my stool, I circle around the bar. She tosses a nervous glance over her shoulder, turning back with a look of glee on her face. “What are you doing?”

“Unless you’re enjoying this mash up we’ve got going…”

“It’s awful.”

I reach under the bar and flick the stereo off. It’s instant relief. The cover band doesn’t sound so bad when they don’t have electric guitars riffing through their melodies. Classic rock or country.

I’ll take one or the other, not both at the same time. My boots slow as I circle back around the bar. I’m usually pretty confidant with women. The confidence comes from knowing that a ‘no’ ain’t going to kill me and there are plenty of fish in the sea.

But she’s got me feeing like a nervous kid again. “You don’t want to go out there?”

She glances over her shoulder and shrugs. “Not really.”

“Not into dancing?”

“No.”

She hedges. “I like to dance.”

I hold out my hand. “Will you dance with me?”

She hesitates, studying my face. With a playful smile, she shrugs. “Why the hell not?”

Climbing to her feet, I see her for the first time in all her glory.

Nice legs.

Soft curves.

Short.

The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder.

She puts that soft little hand in mine, and I lead her to an open space between tables. Slipping one hand behind her back, I let it lightly rest on the small of her back. The other hand holds hers as I guide her in a country two-step. She’s not familiar with it, but picks up on it almost immediately. The only people I know who can pick up dances that fast are actual dancers.

I’m curious about her. I want to know who she is. Where she came from and what makes her tick.

But all that can wait. Right now, we’ve got a dance ahead of us, and I’ve got the sweet smell of her shampoo filling my nose.

I don’t know who she is, but for a guy who’s been on a losing streak, I feel like I struck it rich.