Chapter 4

Some days it was tough being a young, single woman who had a brain and adored science.

Harper sucked in a breath as she entered the outside bar. Never before had she resorted to meeting a total stranger for a date.

You have to start somewhere. You can't keep sitting home alone with your textbooks and your research journals.

Well, not quite true. She had maintained a friendly online relationship in her birding group for nearly two months. But lately Darkbird1790 had been silent.

It hurt to be ghosted, even by an online guy in Peru. The ghosting had pushed her into finding a real date on the internet, a guy she could meet in person.

The Oysterman Bar was a safe choice. Harper waved to Char, her best friend, at the hostess stand. Her bestie would keep an eye on things and if Harper got into trouble, would immediately step in.

Char led her to a table by the railing overlooking a garden, handed her a menu and wished her luck. A waitress rushed over to take her drink order.

"Water. Nothing alcoholic. I'm meeting a guy I've never met before," she told the woman.

"Got it." The waitress glanced at Char. "You're Charlotte's friend. No worries. If he's a jerk, we'll take care of him."

Harper smiled her thanks.

As she waited, Harper scrolled through her phone and her thesis notes on the origin of magma relating to composition and texture of igneous rocks. Almost finished. Getting her PhD had been a lifelong dream, much as her studying volcanoes.

Volcanoes were safer than people these days. Volcanoes might be a bit unpredictable, but with seismometers and equipment measuring earthquakes, you could tell when an eruption was impending. Not so with people. Sometimes people, like her father, would erupt at the least likely warning.

Her parents were volcanic themselves. They'd erupt into arguments over the mundane, from Mom buying the wrong cornflakes (these have SUGAR Mona, are you trying to jerk up my glucose until I drop dead?) to the absurd (Did you have to mow the lawn that short? It looks worse than your crew cut, Eric!) to the dangerous (Where are we supposed to find money to pay the damn mortgage, Eric, when you drank it all away?)

Never certain when they'd explode and she'd duck for cover under her bed to shrink into a little ball, trying to make herself invisible and avoid their ire, Harper found studying volcanoes quite soothing.

Volcanoes never deliberately set out to hurt you, lock you outside in the dark night with childish terrors demons lurked in the shadows…

The Oysterman was a local hangout in the bustling city of Miami Palms preferred by older people. The bar smelled like Old Spice, cigarette smoke and sour beer.

A cool breeze stirred her hair. At least the weather turned colder, and chased the sticky heat plaguing early December. At the next table a group of white-haired men drank beer and talked like old friends. She drew in a breath. Florida in winter had terrific weather, but harbored too many people. Yet here she was stricken by a bout of pure loneliness. Eating alone drinking alone. Destined to love...what? Her science journals? At least her journals didn"t rush her. The journals didn't jostle her like others did as she shopped at the local market, or snap their chewing gum with impatience as she dug for coupons at check out.

She tired of feeling rushed, as if life were a conveyer belt and she had to jog to keep up or fall off. Science was slow, like the building of magma inside a volcano for hundreds of years. Predictable.

Taking a desultory sip of her water, Harper wished for a hot cup of coffee. Or tea. Not this cold water that sent more chills racing through her.

As she picked up the glass again, it became warm beneath her fingers. The water began to churn and froth, boiling over.

Glass cracked and then shattered in her hand. Crying out, she stared at the shards. Her hand remained untouched, as if the sharp glass had no effect.

Harper glanced around. Amid the loud voices and music, no one noticed what had happened.

Except that man at the bar, who kept looking at her.

Harper mopped up the now-warm water with her napkin and set aside the ruined glass.

It was happening again. Cold liquids, cold food, even her body being cold, and she'd wish for otherwise and it would happen.

As if my hands are heating pads. Or my thoughts.

Uneasy, she rubbed her warm hands together, trying to ignore these unusual phenomena that had started when the dreams began. Certainly, it wasn't something she desired to display before a total stranger, let alone a date she hoped to impress.

Most patrons at the horse-shaped counter were white-haired, except that dark-haired man who'd seen her mishap with the glass. Dying sunlight glinted on the gold fluid in his glass. Bourbon, probably.

He turned to regard her. His fathomless gaze poured into her very soul. Dressed in a charcoal gray suit, his appearance impeccable, he looked sexy and dangerous.

Harper put a hand to her aching chest. Her heart galloped as if she'd run a marathon. Desire uncurled, flaming down to her toes, up to the top of her scalp. The space between her legs pulsed with need, so much want that she felt tempted to strip off all her clothing.

If he asked her to, she'd get naked and lie down on the dirty floor, arms out, legs spread wide open.

I want you. Oh please, make love to me. Please want me.

It felt as if she'd crossed a sandy desert to suddenly fall into a cool, welcoming oasis, only the water didn't refresh. It burned. Made her burn with aching need. Harper rocked her hips along the cushioned chair, rubbing her bottom against the fabric, imitating what she wanted to do in bed with this man. Her body responding as he stroked his thick penis deep inside her, slow, thorough strokes intended to tease and bring her to greater pleasure…

Desperate to quench the heat, she knew the gesture only worsened her arousal.

Suffused with tremendous heat, she stared at him, continuing to grind her bottom into the chair.

Harper put a hand to her hot face. Nipples saluted the air. Damn this was utterly embarrassing. Pragmatic logic took over. It was a normal, natural biological reaction to a masculine man oozing testosterone. A guy looking for a quick score, a tumble in bed and nothing more.

Her body wanted sex, of course she wanted sex. About time.

Then he slowly smiled at her, and she knew. Nothing natural about this.

Such a sexy smile and the confident way the tumbler of bourbon dangled from his fingers as he studied her. One finger slowly stroked a drop of condensation from the glass. He lifted the finger to his mouth and instead of sucking on it, he flicked his tongue over the droplet.

Slowly, touching his tongue to the tip of his finger.

The way I'd lick between your legs until you screamed my name and begged me to take you…

Where the hell had that thought come from? Harper forced herself to stop moving. She took a deep breath and wiped her perspiring forehead with a paper napkin. Biology, mere biology. Science taught her genetics played an important role in sexual attraction. Indeed, studies had been conducted that women who in their fertile time preferred more masculine men, including beards like this guy, attractive, with close-cropped facial hair…

It's only biology.

Genetics.

No, it is not. You want me because you want me to impregnate you, drive into you time after time, releasing my seed until your belly swells with my child… biology, that's right. Ha ha.

Goodness gracious. Harper turned away, both turned on and troubled by the deep voice in her mind. Her frantic gaze sought Charlotte, who kept eyeing Hot and Sexy at the bar. Charlotte mouthed "Wow" to her and gave a thumbs up.

Harper shook her head. Surely the man invading her thoughts had been pure imagination, brought on by too much work and worries about her thesis.

The server stopped by, and Harper apologized for breaking the glass. As the woman carefully took away the shards, Harper struggled to regain her lost composure.

She peeked at the man again.

Slight disappointment filled her as she realized he lost interest and talked to a newcomer, another man sitting next to him.

Yeah, he's probably gay. Well, good for him. I'm here to meet someone.

Yet she was still painfully aware of him, feeling as if his gaze burned into her back. Here to meet a man she met over the internet, how could she care about other men? Yet she couldn"t deny both her fascination and her acute sexual interest .... who was he?

Sexually speaking, she had zero interest in men for a few years. The one time she had a boyfriend as an undergrad, she stripped down to her panties in his dorm room…and froze.

As much as she liked him and enjoyed his company, Harper wanted to have sex with him as much as she wanted to lie on a bed of nails.

Simon hadn't understood and afterward, it was all downhill, including his erection. Nothing like a woman asking if they could study for upcoming test instead of screwing to shrivel an erection.

They broke up shortly afterward.

Harper turned her head.

Two women came over next to Tall, Dark and Sexy, chatting with him. He ignored them, staring at his drink. Finally, the women walked away. She felt a slight bout of victory, as if she'd scored something…

What?

Harper blew out a breath. She moved her chair around so her back was to Sexy, and she could see the hostess stand better.

Forget that guy at the bar. He wasn't really interested. Perhaps her blind date would be the guy she needed to fill her lonely nights.

All that hot and bothered stuff was product of an overactive, lonely imagination that relied on her vibrator running smoothly instead of finding a guy to ease her body's needs.

She didn't want the guy at the bar, no matter how sexy he appeared.