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“Yes. And I, for one, greatly appreciate it.”
I pull her closer. I can’t help it. “So you really like my suit.”
“It’s not denim or flannel, so I’d probably like it no matter what,” she says. “But…yes. I love it.”
I knew this suit was perfect. “If you're not into denim, this is really the wrong place to be hanging out.” Denim and cotton are the primary dress code in Autre, Louisiana.
“It's not that I'm against denim in general. It's just that all of the men I’ve been spending time with lately wear it exclusively. All the time. Work—which is fine—out socializing, to church, to important meetings. And it doesn't matter if it's got mud, manure, or worse on it. They still wear it. Into public places. And then try to flirt with me.”
I chuckle. And damn, I want to know everything about her, including where the hell she socializes that has mud and manure in such close vicinity, and what she orders when she’s there.
I also want to know about these men who are flirting with her. Like names, addresses, and social security numbers. It will make it easier to send my people to get rid of them. “Men have been hitting on you with manure on their jeans?”
“Yes.”
“But it hasn't worked?”
“It most certainly has not worked.” She seems almost affronted that I would think for a moment that it might work. Then she leans in and takes a deep breath. “In addition to your very nice suit, you also smell very good. Something else I really appreciate.”
There is no way for me to resist pulling her even closer after that. She can sniff me all she wants. She can do any damned thing she wants to do to me.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “And ditto.” God, I’m not sure I’ve ever wanted to bury my face against a woman’s neck and just smell her more than I do in this moment.
But she laughs. “I realize that I set the bar low when I said that I don't like the smell of manure.”
“You think I'm just returning the compliment?” I ask.
“Yes. I don't wear perfume.”
Well, it might not be perfume, but this woman smells fucking amazing. And…fuck it. I lean in, put my nose against her neck, and take a deep breath.
A little shiver goes through her body, and I want to put my mouth against that skin I just sniffed, so damned bad.
Instead, somehow, I lift my head and meet her eyes. “Well, then I guess it’s just the smell of you that I really like.” Then I lift a hand and drag my thumb and forefinger down a strand of her hair. “It might be partly this.”
I hold up my finger. There's cake frosting on it.
Her cheeks flush, but she grins. “Oops.”
I laugh. She’s real, and intriguing, and also cute as fuck. “Chocolate’s my favorite.”
Her eyes brighten. “Chocolate is superior to all the others.”
“Well…it’s definitely in my top three flavors.”
Her brows rise. “You like vanilla frosting better?”
I decide to test this chemistry. I don’t have to try to make my voice a little gruff though. “I wasn’t talking about frosting.”
The song ends, but it doesn't matter because we stopped moving about a minute ago.
She pulls back and puts a hand on her chest. Her eyes widen.
And I think I just fucked up.
“So, two dances is kind of my limit,” she tells me.
“Are you okay?” Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s breathing a little faster now, but not in a good way.
