“You do that and see if you can learn something,” she’d replied with a roll of her eyes. Then the teasing stopped and he strode over to her.
“Let me do it, Jamie,” he said, in a commanding voice, one that made it clear he wasn’t going to permit her to do it herself. “I’m not the kind of man who’s going to stand by and watch a woman change a damn tire.”
Then he took the jack from her and swapped the spare tire on her car in minutes flat.
“All done,” he said, and stowed the damaged tire and the tools back in her car, taking care of every single detail.
She knew how to change a tire, but she wasn’t going to complain about not getting her hands dirty.
The music shifted over to a slow song.
“You should dance with me,” Smith said. No flirting. Just a straightforward statement. It threw her off, the directness. Because it was the same way he’d talked when he told her he was going to fix the tire: in no uncertain terms.
“What? This is a party at a bar. It’s not a dance.”
“So? One dance,” he said, resting his hand on the bar so near to her hand that she wished he’d inch closer.
She looked around. The Panting Dog was still packed, tables were full, and the bartender was busily serving up more drinks. The party likely wouldn’t lose steam for another few hours, but she needed to cut out early since tomorrow night she’d be back behind the bar for her regular shift.
“I really should go,” she said, pointing to the hallway. “My purse is back there.”
“Then one dance on your way out the door,” he said.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to dance in front of everyone. It would look weird,” she said, her mind racing back to Diane and her ex-husband. He was always kissing her, touching her in public, wrapping her up in his arms and making it seem like she was the center of his world. What a lie that had been, since he was never truly serious about their marriage.
Smith leaned in, brushed his finger lightly against her wrist, sending a flurry of shivers down her spine. “Then don’t dance with me in front of everyone.”
“What do you mean?”
The noise and the crowd turned blurry, and Jamie’s focus narrowed solely to him.
He tipped his head toward the unfinished section. “Dance with me alone. Back of the bar.”
It wasn’t a question. It was almost a command, and it was one she found she liked.
“Why?” she asked, her breath catching.
“Why do I want to dance with you?”
“Yes. Why?”
He stepped closer, his words only for her. “Because it’s spring. Because the weather’s beautiful. Because it’s a lovely night. Because you are the prettiest woman here. No, wait. In the whole damn town. Because dancing is fun, and on nights like this, one dance can sometimes be the best part of the night.”
Her stomach flipped like a pipsqueak gymnast. They were only words, but there was something borderline lyrical about them. Whether he meant them or not, she didn’t know. But she liked the way they made her feel—sexy, pretty, carefree, and full of possibility, like this night.
Then his hand was on the small of her back—a light touch, but a thoroughly possessive one, as if he were marking her, and it was enough to turn her senses upside down. She shouldn’t flirt with him, and she definitely shouldn’t dance with him, because dancing could lead to her hands on his body.
Images flashed before her eyes. Her hands on his waist, the hard planes of his abs, his hips. Her holding on to him.
She didn’t want to give in, but maybe if they danced just once—one dance, that was all—she would get him out of her system. She could say good-bye to this wild kernel of lust that ping-ponged through her body whenever she saw him. Prove to herself that the ridiculous attraction she felt for Smith was misplaced.
“Okay. Let’s dance.”
Chapter Two
He hadn’t scripted out the night.
He hadn’t come to the party to try to get close to Jamie.
But only because they were friends, and had been since he moved to town from Georgia a few years ago after he’d finished college. He’d restrained himself, knowing he wasn’t her type, and wanting to keep her as a friend. Sure, they had fun together, and they could chitchat for hours like they had at the bar tonight. But he knew anything more was unlikely. She’d always gone for the more serious, more studious, more buttoned-up kind of guy.
But with the sheen of a buzz backing him up, a dance sounded like the perfect nightcap. He’d take what he could get, and just the chance to be closer to the woman he wanted would have to be enough.
When they reached the quiet back room, he pulled her in close, his hands on her waist, hers on his shoulders. Her fingers were restless, as if she was unsure where to place them.
“You ever dance before, Jamie Lansing?” he asked, unable to resist teasing.
“Yes I have, thank you very much.”
“What kind? Ballroom? Swing? Salsa?”
She rolled her eyes, but went with it, grabbing his hand and positioning their arms together in a sharp line as if they were poised to tango. “Tango, of course,” she said, and he threw his head back and laughed at her attempt. “Or would you rather we square dance?” She asked in a fake Southern accent. “That more your speed?”
“Oh, make fun of my heritage, why don’t you?”
She shrugged. “Can’t resist,” she said, mimicking his drawl.