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And now the heat radiating off his body was screwing with her senses, drawing her closer to him. The light scent of cologne drifted up, and she had the craziest urge to press her nose against his chest and get a better sniff. Violet caught herself in the nick of time, knowing that there was no coming back from that.
“I wasn’t threatening and trying to intimidate you with my very presence. I don’t know who told you that you were a funny guy, but you aren’t. At all.”
“You’re right, it was a bad joke,” he said. “I’m not really used to being around civilized company. Most days, I just hang with this guy”—Dean pointed at Tyler—“and a bunch of other dudes who think I’m hysterical.”
“Are you the boss?” she asked.
“Yeah, why?”
“Then they really don’t think you’re funny, they are just lying because they don’t want to get fired.”
She said it all with a straight face and was secretly delighted when he chuckled. He was close enough still that the rise of his chest was only a few inches from her, and her gaze was drawn to the definition of his muscles through his T-shirt.
Geez, was she really so desperate that she was willing to hook up with a jerk with a weird sense of humor? She waited for her subconscious to give her a definite hell no, but apparently, the jury in her head was still deliberating.
“We don’t really get fired from the military, unless we are suddenly unable to do the job.”
“Well, regardless, if that’s a sample of your humor, you need to watch some comedy. And not dark comedy like The Cable Guy or The Ladykillers.” Violet glanced over at Tracy and Tyler, who were still nursing their beers. She was running out of witty things to say to Dean and wouldn’t mind another drink in her system, but waiting on Tyler to buy another round was slow going.
Besides, it wasn’t like she couldn’t buy her own alcohol. Especially if it was something other than hops.
“I’m going to grab another drink. You want one?”
“I’ll come with you and get one myself.” He drained the remainder of his plastic cup, and she sighed in exasperation.
“It’s a beer, not a proposal. You can grab the next round.” Violet tapped Tracy and Tyler on the shoulders. “Another?”
“Sure, thanks,” Tyler said.
Tracy nodded and mouthed, Isn’t he hot?
Violet answered with a large smile, although he wasn’t in her opinion. No, she preferred her men with dark eyes and no manners, apparently.
Except maybe the rudeness was an act. For a second there, she’d thought Dean might have a sense of humor. Granted, a dark and twisty sense of humor, but she liked that.
Liked him.
Maybe he wasn’t a total loss. He might be suffering the effects of a bad breakup, and saw all women as the enemy.
Or you’ve been watching too many Hallmark Channel movies.
She could take the pressure off, give him notice that she wasn’t looking for a boyfriend. Boyfriends were just one more thing to add to her ever-growing list of responsibilities; they were time consuming, needy, and the last thing she wanted was to put one more person’s needs before her own.
As she grabbed their empty cups, saving Dean’s for last, she looked up at him from beneath her lashes and went for broke.
“By the way . . . I wasn’t looking for a date.”
Chapter Two
DEAN SPARKS STARED after Violet, stunned silent by her bold admission.
Bullshit.
Dean had known the minute he saw her that she was the love, marriage, and baby carriage type. She wasn’t dressed like some of the other women at the concert—hunting for some action—not in her tank top and shorts that were modest by comparison, but even before she’d lifted those bug-eyed sunglasses and flashed those deep brown eyes at him, he’d been struck by her sweet smile and entrancing voice. Then he’d touched her hand, and it was as if she’d burned him with just the heat of her palm. He hadn’t meant to jerk away from her, but the sensation had been swift and intense, something unexpected.
Especially since he wasn’t planning to stick around.
All he needed was for his pain-in-the-ass psychiatrist to sign off on his psych eval and he could get back to actually being a soldier, going where people needed him. Hadn’t he been punished long enough? All because of one moment, one fraction of time in his ten years in the military, when he’d froze. When the bomb went off, he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. He’d just lain there, trapped under Private Hendrickson’s body, his ears still ringing from the blast and impact as he’d hit the ground.
