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Will turns to me, leaning his elbow on the bar, and nods. “Fairy god-homie. I like it.”
I raise my chin in acceptance of his compliment. When I turn to him, our faces are much closer than they were when he was standing in front of me. The crowd around us sends a wave of pressure, forcing us closer in proximity. His strong chest rises with a deep inhale, and I catch his gaze lingering on my mouth.
My teeth graze my lip.
It’s been nearly two decades since I’ve done this, and I’m not even sure whatthisis. I’m definitely flirting, but his intentions are completely lost on me. Is he just making nice conversation with the woman he met last night? Is he biding his time until Kent decides he likes his curly-haired vixen? Is he desperately wondering what’s the best way to exit this conversation without insulting me?
I have so many questions running through my head. I have to stop looking at his face and getting lost in the heat that radiates from a single look because when those eyes lift to mine, I feel a zing down my entire chest.
I clear my throat and look at his arms. A tattoo peeking out of his sleeve catches my attention. I lift the cotton from his arm and see the bottom of what appears to be an elaborate tattoo of a vicious and sinister-looking snake being pierced with a sword.
Will places his large hand on top of mine and moves the shirt up, taking my hand along with his. I leave my hand there a beat too long, feeling the warm strength of his palm over my hand. Slowly, I drag my fingers away from under his hand and glide my nails down his arm, tracing the outline of the intricate design of his tattoo.
I was wrong. The tattoo is not vicious.
It’s glorious.
Taking over his entire bicep is an angel, who looks like a gladiator, with large wings that span from one side of his bicep to the other. In the angel’s hand is a shield with a sword in the other, piercing the snake in death. The look on the angel’s face is one of anger, determination, and triumph. The curves of muscle on the angel’s body and the hair flowing in the wind are expertly crafted.
I’m still touching his tattoo, marveling at the artwork, when I pull back suddenly. I blink and realize I’ve been too handsy with this man I barely know.
“It’s okay. I like how enamored you are with it.”
“It’s stunning,” I breathe.
When I look up, he’s staring at me with an intensity that causes me to take a step back and count backward.
Will lowers his shirt and smiles. “It’s Saint Michael. Patron saint of police and military. If it were anything else, my mother would have disowned me for getting it.”
“I could see her being upset for tarnishing your perfect body with something permanent.” My eyes widen because I just called his body perfect, but then I laugh. “Fuck it. I’m not embarrassed. You know you’re good-looking. And you clearly go to the gym every day.”
“Clearly.” He smiles.
I take another drink and realize my glass is empty. I’ve been sipping it without realizing, needing something to do with my hands. “Are you not drinking?”
“Wasn’t going to. Unless it makes you uncomfortable to drink alone? I can order a beer—”
“No! Don’t order a drink just for my sake. We’re not here together or anything. You don’t have to do anything for me. I was just asking. No big deal.”
I look up at him. His eyes are narrowed slightly, and that grin is raised on only one side.
“What?”
“You ramble. It’s cute.”
I lift my eyes to the ceiling. Never has my rambling ever been consideredcute.
The band starts playing a new song, a slower melody, and I look to the dance floor. The line dancing has ceased. People are dancing rather intimately with couples swinging each other around and grinding against one another. It’s kind of sexy, which is not something I associate with country music.
“Do you dance?” Will asks, mistaking my interest in watching others dance for a willingness to be out there myself.
“Thought all country was line dancing.”
“They don’t look like they’re line dancing.”
“I can see that. And, no, I don’t dance.”
“Ever?”
