“He’s not so bad. You should think about it,” Kaitlyn said, her matchmaker smile lighting up her entire face. She couldn’t resist trying to bring two people together, with a little nudge here, a nudge there.
“Nice try, but I am Not. Thinking. About. Him. One. Bit,” Jamie declared.
She turned away from the scene and reached for her glass of wine as the music switched to Maroon 5. Good old Adam Levine would distract her from Smith. She’d listen to the song and get lost in the words. She finished off the rest of the chardonnay in a hearty gulp that she was sure would wash away all thoughts of the man she could never be with.
“Not thinking about whom?”
Oh crap.
The sexy southern drawl made her neck feel hot. That was the problem. Ever since she’d first met him, she hadn’t been able to blot out the heat she felt when he was near. His voice alone made her skin tingle. Why did men who were totally unsuitable make a woman’s body feel so good with just a few words?
Kaitlyn mouthed see you later, and slinked off.
Jamie swiveled around to face him. “Not thinking about Adam Levine one bit.”
Smith wiped a hand across his brow in an exaggerated gesture. “Well, thank the lord. I was terrified your mind was wandering to the Sexiest Man Alive,” he said, relaxing against the bar, looking far too good in his jeans and dark gray T-shirt that fit him so well. He ran a hand through his hair, and she found herself wishing that were her hand.
“My mind is wandering nowhere at all, except to another one of these,” she said, tapping the edge of her wine glass. “But good to know you read People Magazine.”
“Of course. Gotta stay current on all the important matters at hand. Who wore what when and who’s doing who,” he said with a twinkle in his eyes and a flirty tone in his voice. She laughed at his comment; he’d always made her laugh. Life of the party, the guy who was fun, never too serious. He held up his index finger, signaling the bartender for another glass. “And I’ll take one more of the pale ale.”
“Coming right up,” the bartender said.
“Now that we’ve established you’re not thinking of rock stars, and that your mind isn’t anywhere but exactly where you want it to be, are you having a good time tonight?”
“I am having an excellent time. I’m very excited for the Spring Festival,” she said, doing her best to keep their chitchat friendly, because that’s all they were—friends. They’d be no good for each other as more. Opposites in every way. She was a romantic, he was a playboy, she was wine, he was beer, she was poetry, he was…wait, did he even read?
Exactly.
So not her type. She read all the time. Everything from poems to romance novels.
“And what is it that gets you most excited about the Spring Festival? Is it, say, the scent of cotton candy in the air?” he asked in a mock serious tone, as if cotton candy were a very important topic.
“Of course, seeing as I’m the keeper of that sweet treat,” she said, since she’d be running the cotton candy stand this year with her sister.
“I do love the taste of sweet things,” he mused, then inched closer to her, meeting her gaze, speaking in a low and sexy tone, making it clear he was enjoying the word play.
“You do?” she asked, as a spark zoomed through her.
“Some more than others,” he said, keeping his gaze locked on her as the bartender set down their drinks. He didn’t stop looking at her as he tossed some bills on the counter.
“Like what?” she asked, unable to resist the suggestive back-and-forth.
“The ones that are sinfully delicious,” he said, in a voice laden with innuendo. “The kind of sweetness you almost need to repent for.”
Sinfully delicious. Those words thrummed through her, and she found herself hoping she was one of those sweet things.
Snap out of it.
When he raised his beer in a toast, she tried to steer away from the double entendres. She picked up her glass, clinked it against his, and took a drink. Her throat was dry, and she desperately needed the liquid. “To the festival,” she said.
“To the festival.”
“Tell me what else excites you,” he said, and it was clear he wasn’t talking about the festival.
But she needed to. She had to. Or she’d be fanning herself soon.
“Oh, you know. All the games.”
“All those crazy games booths where you can win the stuffed animals?”
“Oh definitely. I’ve been practicing my bottle ring toss all year,” she joked, miming throwing a ring, glad to find her way back to banter, because that’s what she and Smith were good at. Innuendo? She didn’t think she could manage that tonight, not with the wine already flowing in her veins, making the night feel smooth and buzzy.
“How about dunking a certain fireman in the dunk tank?” he asked, referring to his booth at the festival.
“I’ll make sure you go down with a splash.”
“All you have to do is hit hard,” he said, downshifting to that slow and seductive tone, one that seemed to linger on that last word, “And I’ll go down.”
Oh holy hell, why did she have two glasses of wine tonight? It weakened all her defenses. Now she was right back on the first bus to Lustville, fueled by flirting.
That’s how it went for the next half hour as she finished her wine, he knocked back his beer, and they chatted more about the party, and the music playing, and the festival. Even though Smith could never ever be her kind of guy, they’d always been able to talk about anything from the foibles of celebrities to the best technique for nailing a strike, from what makes a perfect microbrew to favorite desserts. Through it all, there was the common thread of ribbing and teasing, like the time a few months ago when he’d seen her on the side of the road changing a flat tire. He’d pulled over and offered to help, but she’d laughed him off as she twisted the lug nuts off. “I know what I’m doing, thank you very much,” she’d said, as he leaned against the frame of his truck. “I’ll just stand and watch, then,” he’d fired back.