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“I’m good. I’ve had one beer. Less than you’ve had.”
“Why do you know that?”
“Maybe because I’ve been keeping tabs on you, Lemon.”
“I’m a grownup, Jameson. I don’t need a kid looking after me.”
He smirks at me. He actually smirks at me and points back and forth between us with his index finger. “Remember that time when you needed my help, and I scared off your loser date for you? That time about two minutes ago?”
“I’m sure I could have found someone else to help me.”
“But you didn’t, did you? You came to me for help, Lemon. Come on, I’m buying you a drink.”
“What about your little girlie over there?”
“Only girl I see is the one standing in front of me I’m about to buy a drink for.”
His words are so sweet and sexy. My brain can’t process that Jameson Waters is the one saying them to me.
“You’re really picking the wrong audience for these lines. They’re actually pretty good.”
“I know they’re good. And we’ll see about that.”
“What’s with you tonight? You’re acting weird.”
“Maybe something got into me?”
Frowning up at him, I wonder if something’s wrong. “Yeah, like what?”
“Like how pretty you look tonight.”
I’m smiling before I can stop myself. So, I try to counter it with an over-the-top eye roll. “Just get me a drink already.”
“Your wish is my command, Lemon.”
Jameson presses his hand lightly against my lower back and walks me around the edge of the dance floor to the bar. Since it’s not very busy, we don’t have to wait long before the bartender looks at us with raised eyebrows. At least since he’s a stranger, he won’t remember I was here with Jameson. Not that I’m here with Jameson. We just both happen to be at the Goldrush. Separately. Independently. At the same time. Two old friends who happened to run into each other by accident.
“What are you drinking? You want another white wine?” Jameson asks, rubbing his hand against my back to get my attention.
Is his hand still on my back? How did I not notice that? Why is his hand still on my back?
“Seems like you’re calling all the shots, kid. Why don’t you surprise me?”
He nods. “She’ll have a tequila soda with pineapple juice and lime. I’ll have another beer. Thanks.”
Jameson pays, and the bartender is pushing our drinks across the bar in less than a minute. Jameson picks them both up and hands me my drink. When I take it, his fingers drag along mine before he lets go.
“Were you going to thank me for buying you a drink?”
“Wasn’t planning on it.”
Nodding, he grins down at me. “That sounds about right.”
Jameson presses his hand to the small of my back again and guides me down the stairs and over to a hi-top table next to the seating area with low couches and ottomans.
I push up onto my tiptoes to slide onto a barstool tucked against the wall. But instead of sitting on the barstool on the other side of the table, Jameson stands at the table next to me, his thighs brushing up against mine. Heat radiates off of him onto my bare legs.
“So…” I say, because I don’t know what else to say.
