He smelled like hot cotton, dust, leather, and sun-warmed metal.
A warm pull tightened low in my belly before I could kill it. His thigh had blocked mine. His hand was still on my arm. His thumb pressed over my pulse, steady and careful and impossible to ignore.
I lifted my chin. “If this is your idea of a first date, I have notes.”
Dex’s jaw flexed. “You always this helpful when you’re caught?”
“You always chase women into abandoned quarries and then ask about their attitude?”
“Only when they make me work for it.”
That should not have sounded like anything but professional irritation.
It did.
His gaze dropped to my mouth, quick enough that I might’ve imagined it if his fingers hadn’t tightened once around my arm. Then his attention came back to my eyes.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
I blinked. “What?”
“You hit the truck. Are you hurt?”
The question was inconveniently decent.
“No,” I said. “My pride might be in critical condition.”
“Your pride can ride in the back.”
“You put me in the back, and I’ll kick out a window.”
“I believe you.”
His answer came too fast.
I stared at him.
Dex shifted his weight, still keeping me trapped. “That wasn’t a compliment.”
“It absolutely was.”
“It was an assessment.”
“You assess a lot of women against your truck?”
“Only the ones who run.”
“Again, narrow dating pool.”
That almost-smile threatened his mouth again. He shut it down faster this time, which was rude. If a man was going to be inconveniently attractive while ending my freedom, the least he could do was suffer visibly.
He reached behind him with one hand and pulled cuffs from his belt.
The metal glinted in the late sun.
Every joke in my throat dried up.
I could handle chase. I could handle bluff. I could handle Dex’s forearm beside my face and the heat of him crowding me against the truck.
