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Pike’s questioning look morphed into a sly, victorious smile. “’Bout damn time. But what exactly would you need my car for?”
He shrugged. “I’m not going to bust into her life and shake things up if she really is doing well and is happy there. I don’t want to cause her more hurt. So I’m going to do a little recon first and I need her not to recognize my car. I’d get a rental, but I want to leave first thing in the morning.”
Pike sat up at that. “Hold up. You’re going to spy on her? You really are the crazy, stalker ex-boyfriend.”
“Maybe I am.”
He grinned. “For the record, I kind of like this crazed, in-love version of you. Way more fun. Just don’t fuck things up this time.”
“Well, that’s not the plan.”
“How are you going to find her? I mean, small town or not, it’s still a whole town.”
Foster walked over to the coffee table and swiped Pike’s keys. “You don’t want to know.”
“Ah, hell.”
Foster headed back toward his bedroom, but not before he heard Pike mutter, “Yeah, he’s going to fuck it up.”
—
I sat at the small, scarred table sipping my drink and enjoying the band who was playing at the Rusty Wheel tonight. I’d never been a huge fan of country music, but the acoustic set had a certain charm. And Michael seemed to be thoroughly enjoying it, singing along to the music and sending me a smile every now and again from beneath the brim of the cowboy hat he’d worn tonight. He had a nice voice. I’d never noticed that about him. It was probably very soothing to his patients when he was yanking teeth out and such.
This was the third time I’d been out with him this week, and each time it’d gotten more and more comfortable. He didn’t make my stomach flip over when he looked at me, but he was fun. And it sure was better than being mopey girl in my house. When antidepressant commercials start to look upbeat, it’s time to get out.
Michael leaned over, draping his arm over the back of my chair, and spoke against my ear. “Dance with me?”
“I’m not very good at the two-step,” I said, cocking my head toward the other couples out on the floor.
“Just follow my lead. You can do that, right?” he asked with a good-natured wink.
I smirked. Oh, if he only knew. “Sure.”
I let him take my hand and lead me onto the dance floor. With a smile of encouragement, he pulled me close, his hand at my back, and guided me into the flow, counting the steps for me. “Quick, quick, slow.”
He was a confident dancer and easy to follow, so I kept up pretty well. We moved around the floor, keeping the circle pattern that everyone seemed to be following, and I found myself enjoying it. Quick, quick, slow. Quick, quick, slow. Apparently he thought I was catching on quicker than I actually was though, because he moved to try to spin me. Not expecting the changeup, I missed the cue and turned the wrong way, almost twisting his arm out of its socket in the process. He let go of my hand and my momentum carried me into the next couple.
Michael barely rescued me before I took us all down. I grabbed for his arm, half-panicked, half laughing. He dragged me against him, laughing as well, eyes sparkling. “Whoa, there.”
“Sorry,” I said, hands still curled into his biceps as he moved me out of the flow of dancers and off to the side. “Awkward girl plus beer. Bad combination.”
“No need to apologize. I like awkward. And sloshed is just a bonus.”
I snorted. But he pushed my hair behind my ear, looking down at me with a smile that went from humor to something else. And I knew that look. I didn’t have a ton of experience, but no one could mistake what his intention was or what was about to happen. I opened my mouth to say something, but it was already past the point of no return.
Michael leaned in and pressed his lips to mine, cradling my head in his hands, and kissing me with a tender reverence I didn’t deserve. I was frozen for a moment, unsure what to do or how to react. But my mouth moved on its own accord, answering the kiss, even as my mind was spinning in every direction. He tasted like beer and peanuts and faintly of mouthwash. And none of what he was doing was bad, but it was all . . . wrong.
My hands slid up to his chest and pushed gently. Instantly, he eased back from the kiss, respecting my subtle signal. He gave me a sheepish smile. “Sorry, probably too soon, right? I lost myself there for a moment.”
“It’s okay,” I said, looking down, a sadness eating away at my insides. “I’m just . . . not quite ready for that yet.”
Or maybe ever. Not if it felt like that. Maybe I hadn’t been overreacting when I thought I’d never experience anything like Foster again. I craved the fire that happened every time we’d touched, that must-have-more passion. Maybe it could grow with Michael. Maybe I needed to give it time, give us both a chance.
“Hey, there’s no rush or pressure from me, all right?” he said, taking my hand again. “I’m not on some predetermined timeline.”
“Thank you.” He led me back to our table and ordered another round of drinks, but my heart wasn’t in the music anymore. Or the date. After a few minutes, Michael seemed to be just as content as before—not perturbed or offended by my brush-off. He really was a good guy. I glanced at my cell phone to check the time and made a show of yawning.
“Getting tired on me?” he asked, bumping my knee with his.
