7. Wisteria

My first instinct is to turn tail and run, before he can see me. I can call and say my card was stolen. Lost. I can ask them to send me a new one. But even as I think all of that, frozen to the spot, I know I don't have much of a choice. It will take days–maybe even more than a week to get a new card, and I haven't even forwarded mail to my new address yet. Sending something so important to a hotel feels like a terrible idea, and for what? Because I can't talk to a good-looking man?

A man who's apparently so good-looking he made you run into the bathroom to rub one out.

My face heats all over again, and much like last night, I want to disappear. But before I can either decide to flee or get up the courage to walk to the bar, he looks up at me, and those blue-grey eyes lock with mine.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck!

That's exactly what I want to do with him.

The thought sears through me in a flaming jolt of embarrassment. I swallow hard as I see a momentary flash of surprise cross his face, and then smooth out, his mouth quirking up in a practiced half-smirk as I force my feet to start moving towards the bar. He knows the effect he's having on me, and that makes it even worse. It makes me wonder what else he knows.

"Hey there, darlin'." The smirk turns into a smile, spreading across his face. "Came back for seconds?"

Why does everything out of his mouth sound so utterly filthy?Two sentences, and I feel like I can't breathe. It's not the overwhelming sense of dizzying arousal that I felt last night, but I still feel a little weak-kneed, just listening to him.

"I actually–" I take a breath, placing one hand on the bar and trying to compose myself before I feel like an utter fool. "I left my card here last night. I just wanted to close the tab and pick it up."

"What's your name?" He looks at me curiously, and I press my lips together.

"I really just need to get my credit card–"

He grins, and I can see the laughter barely contained behind it. "I know, darlin'. But I gotta know your name if you want me to find it."

In that moment, I truly, entirely wish that I'd just called and said the card was lost, instead of coming back here.

"Wisteria Avon," I mutter, looking down as I study the wood grain of the bar more intently than I've ever looked at anything in my life.

"Pretty name," he says mildly, but I think I hear something else in the way he says it. A curiosity, a heat that makes my skin feel prickly and warm, an interest that I've never heard suffuse a man's voice when he says my name before.

But then again, I could just be imagining it.

I glance up as I hear him turn away, watching him beneath lidded eyes as he turns away to open a drawer next to the order station. He doesn't look embarrassed, or flustered in the slightest–but then again, why would he? He didn't become so overwhelmed with lust in my presence that he ran off and did something embarrassing.

God, he really is unfairly gorgeous.He's wearing a blue and black checked button-down today, made out of some material that looks well-worn and soft, the sleeves rolled up to showcase those muscled forearms again. He has dark jeans on today instead of black, and they also look well-worn, like the denim is soft from plenty of wear. Without meaning to, my eyes flick lower, beneath his weathered brown leather belt, and I blink, wondering if I'm hallucinating.

Either he has the completely inappropriate beginnings of a hard-on–or he's fucking huge.

"Here we are." The man closes the drawer, a slim blue card in his fingers that I recognize as mine. I tear my gaze away from where I shouldn't have been looking, licking my lips nervously as he crosses back to where I'm standing and holds it out. "Your card, Ms. Avon."

He says it in an exaggerated drawl, and I can't help the laugh that threatens to bubble up. "Is that all a show, or are you really not from here?" I demand, drawling the last few words the way he does, and the bartender chuckles.

"Are you makin' fun of the way I talk?" That smile is still on his lips, and I feel myself flush as I take the card out of his hand.

"No, I was just–"

"And I was just teasin'." He leans forward, propping those muscled forearms against the bar. "We should be properly introduced, I think, since I know your name. I'm Eli Evans."

Eli Evans. "It suits you," I say softly, before I can think about the words coming out of my mouth, and then instantly wince. "I mean–we don't know each other, so I suppose I don't really know what suits you–"

"Easy there." He chuckles. "For what it's worth, I think your name suits you, too."

"Oh?" I blink at him, startled. "You do?"

He nods. "It's pretty, just like you. Seems sweet, too."

My eyes widen. Is he flirting with me? I've never had a man flirt with me like this. Not crass and objectifying, or awkward and silly, but smooth as molasses. Warmth floods me, and I have that weak-kneed feeling again, my breath catching as I look at his blue-grey eyes. I can see the hint of a tattoo at the edge of the open neck of his shirt, hidden in the thatch of dark hair there, and I realize there's more on his forearms. I can't pick out what they all are without staring, but I see an intricate spray of flowers along the inside of one arm, etched out in black and grey.

"Like what you see?" His voice deepens, a low rasp that makes my heart flutter, and I flush deeper.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare. I just–" I fumble for my purse, giving up on finding my wallet in the depths of it and shove the card directly inside of it instead. "Thank you for grabbing this for me. I'm just going to–"

"Hey, now, I was just teasin' a little." He pushes himself away from the bar, that flirtatious smile easing into something more relaxed. Is everything he does this much of a show? Every look, every move, every gesture seems primed to change into whatever it is that he needs to be in the moment. It's a little unsettling, but intriguing at the same time. "Sit down and have a bite. It's lunchtime, and the special is especially good today. I can make you another of those drinks, if you like."

I laugh, a sudden burst of a sound that surprises me. "It's not even quite two in the afternoon. Isn't that a little early for whiskey?"

Eli chuckles. "Well, I suppose that depends on the day you're havin'."

"I have had–a day so far." I sink down onto one of the barstools, letting out a breath. "Maybe not bad enough for whiskey. But I'll take that lunch special. And maybe just a glass of water."

"Comin' right up." He strides over to the order station, and I hook my purse beneath the bar, wondering how it is that I managed to be talked into staying so quickly. I'd had every intention of leaving and going somewhere else for lunch, but Eli is so charming that it made me want to do as he asked. I wonder, briefly, if there's some kind of magic at play here–but I don't think there is. I think it's simply his nature.

He sets down a glass of water with a lemon slice floating on top, and then slides a wooden cutting board in front of where I'm sitting. There's a handful of limes and lemons sitting there, and he starts to casually slice them as he glances up at me, curiosity in those grey-blue eyes. "So what's goin' on? Somethin' go wrong with your travel plans?"

I shake my head, reaching for the glass of water. Standing this close, I can smell that juniper and sandalwood scent, like standing in the middle of a forest on a cold clear day. My pulse beats a little faster, and I feel that sense of warmth starting to flood me, that ache building between my legs.

What the hell is going on?

It must be this place, I decide. Something about this bar must be designed to play into the desires of others–something to make the customers tip better, or encourage sales, or–

But deep down, I'm not sure that's true. No one else in the bar looks desirable to me–not any of the few customers sitting down for lunch or the tall, lean red-headed server talking to a table at the far end of the room. It's just this man in front of me–Eli–who makes me feel this way.

He looks up at me quizzically, as if waiting for me to answer, and I shake my head quickly. "I'm not a tourist. I actually–well, I guess I live here now."

His eyes crinkle at the corners as he chuckles. "You guess? You don't know where you live?"

"I mean–day before yesterday, I lived in Seattle." How is it that I'm always so tongue-tied around this man? I've never been someone who makes conversation easily, but I feel like I'm tripping over every word, struggling to make sense.

He nods slowly. "Seattle. Been through there a couple times. Can't say I care for it much."

"Me too. I mean–I didn't. It was just–where I lived, though. Where I went to college. It's not easy to just get up and move, you know." There's a touch of defensiveness in my voice, and I wonder why I feel the need to justify myself to him.

"But you did." He sets the knife down next to the sliced citrus, that curiosity in his gaze intensifying. "Somethin' change?"

"My aunt passed." I bite my lip, feeling that knot of grief in my chest tighten. "She left me everything. Her home, her shop. You probably knew her–everyone here seems to have. Eleanora Avon."

Eli shakes his head slowly. "Nah, I just got here myself, to be honest. Less than a week ago. I'm as new to the place as you are."

I pause halfway to my glass, startled. "Wait, really? You don't live here?"

"I suppose I live here for now." He shrugs. "I'm stayin' at the lodge on this side of town. A little quieter, and I prefer the woods to the beach."

Something about the way he says it, a slight rasp on woods, a silver glint in his eyes, sends a shiver down my spine. It only lasts for a second, as the sound of a chiming bell comes from the kitchen and Eli turns away to the window behind the bar, scooping up a plate set there by a massive green-skinned, tusked man that I catch a glimpse of through the open space.

He slides the plate in front of me, refilling my water glass. "There you go. Daily special. Eat up, I'm gonna go grab some more glasses while things are slow."

The sandwich in front of me is huge–a piece of fried chicken with thick swiss cheese melted over it, lettuce and red onion, and what looks like a homemade, grainy honey mustard drizzled over the whole thing and dripping down the sides of the soft bun. There's a mound of crispy fries with herbs on top and a small cup of some sort of aioli, and I'm grateful that Eli has already walked off when my stomach growls loudly. The toast and scrambled eggs that I ate at the hotel this morning have long since worn off.

When he comes back, I'm almost halfway through it, the fries devoured. He looks at the plate, grinning, and I feel my cheeks heat a little. "It's really, really good," I say, almost defensively, and he laughs.

"I'm glad you liked it. Sure you don't want a drink?"

"It's still not even three in the afternoon." I shake my head at him, but I hear a little playfulness creeping into my tone. "Maybe I'll come back later. I do need to try some of the other places in town, though, if I'm going to be living here."

Eli cocks his head to one side, and I could swear I still see that silver glint in his eyes. God, he really is ridiculously gorgeous. Looking at him, it's all I can do not to imagine stripping off his clothing piece by piece, unbuttoning that shirt until I discover exactly what tattoos are inked beneath it, how far down that dark hair goes. I have a sudden, visceral image of running my tongue along the line of hair that undoubtedly runs beneath his navel, down to the thick, hard–

Oh my god.

Eli chuckles, a dark, rasping sound that tells me he knows where my thoughts went–or at least suspects. "I'm workin' the lunch shift today," he says slowly, his gaze flicking over my face and then slipping downwards, ever so briefly. "If you were interested in gettin' that drink somewhere else–maybe where I'm stayin'?"

I stare at him, my mouth going dry. I'm not good at picking up on signals, but I can't possibly be misinterpreting this one–can I? "Are you asking me to come back to your place?" I blurt out, my voice an embarrassing squeak at the end, and I feel my cheeks turn pink all over again. Well if he was, he won't be now.

But Eli just smirks, that sexy quirk of his full mouth turning upwards and drawing my eye to his strong jaw, that dusting of black stubble. I'm dying to find out what it would feel like on my skin, and I feel that wave of heat again, that building ache intensifying until I feel sure that I'm wet, the same way I was last night. I see him breathe in, slow and deep, see his throat move as he swallows hard, and I wonder if he can smell how aroused I am.

The thought makes me squirm, but not entirely in a bad way.

"That is what I'm askin'." He moves closer to the bar, his voice low and deep, inches away from me. His blue-grey eyes lock onto mine, and I have that feeling once again that I must be in some kind of ridiculous dream.

No man who looks like this has ever flirted with me. No man who looks like this has ever asked me to come home with him. Eli could have any woman who walked into this bar, I feel sure of that–maybe in the bar itself. Hell, just last night I was fantasizing about him taking me in front of everyone–even though I'd never actually do that.

For one wild moment, I'm tempted to say yes. I breathe in his woodsy scent, and I think of going back to the lodge with him, of letting him undress me and kiss me and touch me. I think of unwrapping him like a fucking Christmas present, finding out exactly what lies beneath those clothes that I'm aching to take off, and fucking him. Or, more likely–getting fucked by him.

The first time I'd ever go to bed with someone who I didn't have to pretend with. Who wouldn't care if he found out what I am, because either he's something supernatural himself–or he doesn't mind being around those who are, if he's staying here in Bayton.

The moment I think it, I know I can't say yes to him. Not because I'm saving that first experience for something special–I'm not that naive or idealistic–but because looking at him, I already know I would want more than he could give me. I know that it would mean something to me, to go to bed with someone who I didn't have to fear finding out the truth of what I am–and I feel certain that for this man, it wouldn't mean anything.

I've never been good at hookups or one-night-stands. And that's all he would want. He'd take me to bed once, probably ruin me for anyone else for a long time, and then that would be that. I know myself well enough to know that once wouldn't be enough–that it wouldn't have to be forever, or a relationship, but something as casual as what I feel sure he's hoping for would only hurt me.

That's not how I need to start off my new life in Bayton. I had enough heartbreak in Seattle, I don't need it here. The thought I had earlier flickers back into my head–the idea of a possible fling that could grow into more–and I feel a twist in my stomach when I think of it being him.

The last thing I need is a place and a man that I have to avoid here, especially in this small of a town. I imagine running into him, the way that would feel after letting him into my bed, knowing that what he wants from me wouldn't match up to what I'd want from him. The way he makes me feel is already too much, and I know myself well enough to know the kind of heartbreak I'd be setting myself up for.

It's tempting to tell myself that I could manage it, that I could go into this with my eyes wide open, but I know myself better than that. I'm trying to be true to myself here–not the other way around. And that begins with this–turning down a man that I desperately want, but who I know is all wrong for me.

"That's very flattering," I manage, feeling my throat tighten on the words. "But I don't know if that's a good idea. I'm–I'm sorry."

I know I'm not imagining the flicker of disappointment in his eyes. But he nods slowly, that small smile still on the corners of his lips. "Alright then," he says, turning back to the citrus he was slicing. "You let me know if you need a refill on that drink?"

I find, when he goes quiet, that I miss the sound of his voice–that slow, syrupy accent and the flirtatious banter. It's for the best, I remind myself, reaching for the remainder of my sandwich, but my appetite is gone. I just moved here, there's no need to complicate things. I have more than enough to keep myself occupied without a romantic entanglement to make it all more difficult–especially one that I'll almost certainly end up wanting to be more than it would be.

But as I steal one more glance at his handsome face before I ask for a to-go box, I can't help feeling a flicker of regret.

A feeling that I'm missing out on something that could be so much more than I've ever imagined.