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“Careful,” I say, my low voice laced with a warning. “I'm not the kind of man you want to play with.”
“Who says I'm playing?” She’s breathless, as if genuinely confused by my words, and that stirs something primal within me. I can feel her trembling and know she’s off-balance. She covers quickly with a smile, leaving me wondering if some risks are worth taking, after all.
“Are you always this intense?” she asks in an almost playful voice, her cheeks flushed. There's a tremble in her slight frame, a shiver that might be fear—or anticipation, desire, need.
“Only about things that matter,” I say, unable to tear my gaze away from her face. I search her eyes for signs of discomfort, ready to back off if I've crossed a line. Instead, I find a flicker of excitement dancing behind her surface-level apprehension. Her gaze is an unspoken invitation that snares me like a trap.
“Things like... personal space?” she says, wiggling her fingers. Her attempt at a joke is cute, but the way her voice cracks betrays her frayed nerves.
“Something like that.” The corner of my mouth twitches upward as an unfamiliar warmth spreads through my chest.
I let her wrist go and she takes the glass. “Would you like another drink?” she asks, her voice breathy and quiet, as if we’re the only two people in the bar.
And I’m comforted by the knowledge that she feels it, too, this undeniable pull between us.
“Do you want to get out of here?” I ask, voicing the question before it fully forms in my thoughts.
Her gaze flits to the door then back to me, a silent war waging behind those pretty brown eyes. I can almost hear her thoughts tumbling over each other, weighing the risk of staying against the risk of leaving with a man whose reputation is as dark as the ink on his skin.
“That sounds tempting,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “But I’m working, and I don’t think my boss would be okay with me just taking off.”
I can’t hold back a chuckle and a smile crosses her lips. Still, I have the oddest feeling there’s something she’s holding back.
“I could talk to him, see if there’s any way to get you off for the night.” As I say the words, my body responds and her sharp inhale tells me she caught the double meaning, too.
“I don’t want my coworkers to think anything’s going on between us.” Her eyes reflect her worry about what others might think, and I understand that. I don’t want to make her uncomfortable, but I do want to get her out of this place and somewhere a little more private. And not just because I want to feel her body against mine.
“Because there’s nothing going on between us,” she says, and I wonder if she’s trying to convince me or herself.
“You could leave, then I could follow in five minutes.” I want to offer solutions, and I’m intrigued she’s considering my offer.
She nods, her delicate throat flexing as she swallows hard. “Where would we go?” she asks, her question punctuated with a thrill she can't quite hide.
“Anywhere,” I respond, my voice steady. “Anywhere you feel safe and free.”
We both hear the sound of her phone ringing, and she gives me an apologetic smile and answers.
I see the change in her features, feel the shift in her mood, and watch the possibility of time alone with her slip away.
Chapter Eight
Isla
I’m so lost. I want to do what Walker wants me to do - like leave and go somewhere with him - because I don’t want to get fired. But more than that, he makes my stomach flip flop and my heart flutter. Those have to be signs of danger, right? Because I’m a soon-to-be-married woman.
I think about the call from Chase earlier and how I’d found myself stuck between protecting my job but not overstepping or being untrue to Chase.
I’m wiping the bar, but I’m zoning out, daydreaming about seeing my boyfriend, kissing him, feeling him hug me tight. I need to get home to visit him soon. I miss him.
Taking a step to the right to continue, I collide with a powerful, warm frame and glance up at Walker with shock. “Sorry,” I mumble, my face blazing red-hot as I hurry away.
All at once, I’m pulled back into reality as I make my way to the back door to step out and take a breath. With cold air in my lungs and a much clearer head, I go back inside and make my way to the bar.
“Excuse me.” A gravelly voice has me glancing over into the eyes of a man I don’t recognize sitting at the bar. His salt-and-pepper hair doesn't betray his age nearly as much as the deep lines etched into his weathered face. But it’s his eyes that grab my attention. His eyes, the same impossible sage green as Walker’s, hold a lifetime of stories and what looks like regret.
“Can we talk?” he asks, his gaze locked on mine.
It’s not an unusual request; I get plenty of people who mistake me for a therapist, but I don’t mind letting people vent their woes.
