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“What makes you think that?” I asked.
Phoebe tossed her blanket on the couch and started toward me. So much for putting distance between us.
“Think what?” she asked.
I was truly clueless. My mind was scrambled at the sight of her approaching me. Those curves had my hands itching to touch. I’d spent almost every second of the last couple of hours or so wondering what she looked like beneath those clothes.
“What makes you think I don’t date?” I asked.
“You said there weren’t too many women here.” She stopped at the countertop where she’d set her coffee mug that morning and stared me down. “I assumed that meant you’re single.”
Damn, I wanted this woman. That face, those hips…everything about her.
“I haven’t been with a woman since I moved here six years ago.”
I’d just said those words. Out loud. She’d have every right to lose all respect for me. A woman didn’t want a man who was celibate.
Did I want her to want me?
Yes. The answer was yes. At some point, I’d teetered from mere attraction into conquest mode. I would do whatever it tookto win this woman over and have her moaning beneath me by the end of the day.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said. “I’ve had relationships and…women.”
I was screwing this up, big time. Maybe I’d lost my touch with women. No, sweet talking them had never been my thing. Mostly, I’d show up somewhere, a woman would start flirting with me, and next thing I knew, we’d be back at my place or hers.
Problem was, there was no one to flirt with around here. Even when I went to town, it was all ex-military dudes and old-timers. The number of women in town had gradually been growing lately, but they were all attached to the men here.
“I haven’t,” she said.
I’d already moved over to the fridge, and now I squatted in front of it, door open, staring blankly inside. “Haven’t what?”
“Had a lot of relationships,” she said. “Or men. None, actually.”
Now I looked over at her, straightening. What was she saying? I didn’t get it.
“I’ve dated.” She shrugged. “And I guess I had a couple of those high school relationship situations. Holding hands, going on dates, making out…but no sex. And nothing serious.”
I was just flat-out staring at her at this point. She had to be joking.
“Exactly how old are you?” I asked.
After the words were out, I realized how abrupt they sounded. Foot-in-mouth disease strikes again.
“Twenty-one.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s not my age. It’s...”
Silence. I waited her out for a few seconds, then remembered the fridge door was open. Propane didn’t grow on trees. I squatted and grabbed one beer, then paused again.
I looked over at her. “Want a beer?”
She was legal, right? Twenty-one. Yes, legal. Last thing I wanted to do was run afoul of the law. But I was thirty-six. A thirty-six-year-old had no business sleeping with a twenty-one-year-old, even if she was as fine as a deer on a crisp fall morning.
Yeah, I needed to work on my sweet talk if that was the best I could come up with.
“Sure,” she said. “I don’t suppose you have anything stronger.”
I looked at her again. “I have some vodka, but?—”
“I’ll take it. Got anything to mix it with?”
