Page 62 of The Difference Between

“Hm.” He rests one hand on the bar and the other on the back of my barstool, fully securing me in a Gavin-made cage. “I think you like it though.”

I hate that I might.

“Why do you hate hugs?” he asks.

“Not all hugs,” I correct him. Still close. Still flooded with heat and dirty thoughts. “Only ones from strangers. They’re assumptive.”

“Assumptive?” His brows raise along with one corner of his lips.

“Assumptive,” I repeat, tips of our noses once again brushing. “That someone thinks their touch is welcomed or needed. I hug my family. I don’t need more people in my space.”

“Because you don’t want them there?” Some of the play has left his voice.

“Because I’ve yet to find anyone who belongs there.”

His eyes sweep over every inch of my face, this time like they’re seeing something beneath the surface, and I wish I could unsay it. What I said is true—I barely tolerate most people, let alone need them touching me with chests and arms and breaths on my neck—but the way he’s looking at me and the way I’m letting him . . .

“You hugged Addie,” he says.

“She’s cute.” My lips twitch. “She’s allowed to be assumptive.”

He touches my face again; my lips part again. This man is going to kiss me and everything in me is screaming to let him.

“Gav!” someone hollers across the bar. “We’re up!”

He looks their way with a wave and our bubble of our aloneness pops, both of us returning to our own spaces.

We’re in a bar, and I’m here to get a job done. And while I might hope to one day meet someone I want to let get close, Gavin Nickels isn’t that man—he can’t be. He’s young, happy to settle, and has an unrequited dream of living in a shed. Not to mention the community snacks. Every difference between us could stretch the miles from here to Chicago.

He hands the bartender cash and says, “Hers too.” Then to me: “Stay.”

I laugh, slinging my purse over my shoulder as we stand. “And do what?”

“See where the night goes. Have fun.” He lifts a shoulder. “They have that in Chicago, don’t they?”

He says it in jest, but little does he know I can’t remember the last time I did something for fun. That me sitting here talking to him for the last twenty minutes is the most fun I’ve had in months.

Laughter erupts from the dartboards, and my gut reaction is to say yes. To stay, to play—with him, his friends, even Nose, the former potential father of my child—and see where it leads. But I also have work to do. Donors to research and the whole wine industry to learn by Monday. “I can’t.”

He takes his change and leaves a tip. “Can’t or won’t?”

My eyes drift all over him. His City of Fontain hat. His clothes. His boots. His scarred hands and tattooed arm. “Both,” I admit.

Another call of his name comes from across the room, and he raises a finger while keeping his eyes on me. “Firm you work for only buy vineyards, or do they give out loans too?”

“Loans?”

He leans toward me, close, and my breath stills. At my ear, he whispers. “I’m interested.”

I school my amusement.

He winks then walks away, skirting around tables to the dartboards and friends who greet him with half hugs and handshakes. He’s surrounded by people who know him, and everyone looks happy. Especially him. Even Nose.

On his first throw, Gavin gets a bullseye. I can’t hear what he says, but the way people around him react, it’s a shit-talking one-liner.

At the doorway I pause and give him one last look; he’s already looking at me.

Stay, he mouths.