“Bryn.”
His hand is warm, all encompassing around my own, rough calluses pushing into my softness. Something in my chest eases.He’s gentle with his handshake, but it’s full of confidence. I get the sense that if he were shaking anyone else’s hand, his grip would be firmer, the contact quicker. He lingers, though, my hand in his, and now I’m breathless for a completely different reason.
The longer he stares at me, the calmer my heart becomes, the panic ebbing.
“Where are you ladies hanging out?” Wyatt asks, leaning towards me, still maintaining the contact of our hands. The electricity of his touch sends tingles up my arm, through my chest, straight down to my belly where it pools with warmth.
I point towards our table, and he glances in the direction before his gaze shifts across the dance floor. Finally, he looks back at me, winks, and with my hand firmly in his, makes a path through the throng of people, Jordan still at my back. Wyatt keeps my hand near his side, directing me with a little pressure this way or that, wherever he needs to take us to get through the crowd. Not once does someone bump into me. Not once do I need to squeeze through a small little opening between people. He simply parts the crowd, people moving for him.
It might be the singlehandedly sexiest thing a man has ever done for me.
Jordan squeezes my other hand when we get close to the table and then breaks away to go join the girls. I tug on Wyatt’s hand, and when he glances over his shoulder at me, I nod in the direction Jordan went, his eyes tracking her down. He nods and pulls me to the bar directly across from them.
“You can see them, they can see you,” he says, bowing his body to be heard over the music. It’s louder here than it was near the restrooms. “And once I buy you a drink, you can make a fast getaway if you want. Though I hope you don’t.”
There’s a teasing glint in his eye as he eases back from me,and I fight not to match his contagious grin, glancing down at the ground between us. He said nothing, but I can’t help feeling that he sensed my panic. Absurd, considering I met him five seconds ago.
“If you’re buying me a drink with the hopes I’ll sleep with you, I’ll tell you now that I don’t sleep with strangers.”
His eyebrows shoot up beneath his cowboy hat, and a second later he laughs, the sound carrying over the speakers, rich and velvety. A soft caress to my brain compared to the music.
“Neither do I,” he says, flagging down a bartender. “I have a strict three-date rule.”
It’s my turn for my eyebrows to rise. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not. What are you having?”
He gestures towards the bartender, his bicep flexing beneath the tight sleeves. The ear of a cougar disappears beneath the fabric, but the rest of the full-bodied cat is on display, a mountain scene rising and falling within the tattoo as it moves down his lower arm. The face of a wolf stares back at me, and I’m not sure if it’s Wyatt’s flexing or the wolf’s haunting eyes that take my breath away. The ink is beautiful, and mesmerizing, and I’m almost distracted enough that I don’t give the bartender my order.
“Jack and Coke,” I tell the man on the other side of the counter. “And a water, please.”
Wyatt holds up two fingers, doubling the order, then turns his attention back to me. “A woman after my own heart. Jack and Coke, my favorite besides straight whiskey.”
“Neat or on the rocks?”
“Double, neat.”
“Double. On the rocks,” I counter. “It’s how my grandpa taught me to drink it.” I get enjoyment at the surprise that lights up his eyes. Eyes that I’ve determined are green by the light of thebar. “Do you really have a three-date rule?”
The man has not stopped smiling, making me wonder if his cheek muscles are as strong as the rest of him looks. “I do. I mean, I’d be lying if I said I’d never had a one-night stand, but they’ve never done much for me—”
“Except get you off?”
His mouth opens, closes, opens again, and then Wyatt laughs, making my stomach curl deliciously. “Well, sure. I’m only a man, and the female body is something spectacular, but it’s not my preference. I like connection. Presuming the woman I’m with is also ready.”
My head tilts in contemplation as the bartender finishes with our Jack and Cokes, Wyatt paying for them with a couple of crisp bills. It could totally be a line—I’ve heard them all the past four years at 10-42—but something tells me that this man and his earnest, bright eyes are telling the truth.
He hands me one of the drinks and holds up the second glass for me to clink against. “To dancing, whiskey, and a three-date rule.”
Laughter bubbles out of me, and I cheers him before taking a sip. It’s far less offensive than the shots that burned all the way down, and I savor the burst of flavor on my taste buds. The notes of caramel and vanilla have me breathing out a contented sigh, my eyes closing for the briefest of moments while I simply enjoy.
The negative thoughts and swirling panic of five minutes ago are gone, I realize, and with a start, I open my eyes. Wyatt is watching me, wearing a look of intense fascination.
“You good?” he asks.
Sucking in a sharp breath, I look down between us and take another pull from my drink. Deeper this time. Quicker. Not giving myself a second to enjoy the way it tastes. Why would he ask methat? Did he notice the panic? How could he? He knows nothing about me.
“You look like you were really enjoying that first sip,” he follows up, and my eyes flash back to his.
