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I swallow hard. “I don’t like some of them.”
“The men?”
I nod.
He cocks his head, eyes narrowing. “Why? Did they do something to you?”
For some reason, it’s embarrassing to admit that they harass me. I drop my eyes, picking at the table.
“Sometimes they try,” I say finally.
“Which ones?”
I snap my gaze back up. The way he said it sounds…dangerous.
“Why does it matter?” I whisper.
Maybe he hears the defeat in my voice, because he doesn’t answer. I glance down and notice he’s got a thick scar on the knuckle of his thumb. Perhaps from a branding job gone wrong.
His fingers are long and lean with the short white scars on the backs of his hands and forearms, the ones I see on men who work with barbed wire a lot. Gloves and long sleeves will only do so much.
“What’s your name, darling?” he asks, his voice low.
“Well, it’s not darling, that’s for sure,” I say.
I cringe, expecting him to get pissed off the way Avery did. Then the corner of his mouth jerks in a smile. He looks at me, head down, eyes up, amusement glittering in them. He has a toothpick in the corner of his mouth I didn’t notice before, but I see it now, and I can’t look away.
He flicks it to the other side with his tongue.
“You’ve got a little sass to you,” he says.
I lean in, elbows on the countertop. I don’t know where the courage to get closer came from, but the desire is there.
“Do you like it?” I whisper.
“Maybe I do.”
“I’m Diane,” I say. “Diane Carter.”
He straightens and holds out his hand. “Westin Quinn.”
Tentatively, I shake it. His hand is so much bigger than mine, and it engulfs me in a firm grip, wrapping me in warmth for a second before he withdraws. He leans back down so he’s eye level with me, his elbows planted on the table.
“How old are you, Diane?” he asks.
The way he says my name sends a thrill through me. Di-ane. I like the little drawl he adds to the last syllable. My toes curl in my boots.
“Does it matter?”
His jaw works. “Yeah, it does.”
I sigh, brushing my hair back. “Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one at midnight.”
His brows rise. “You’re just a little thing. You can’t even drink yet.”
“I am not. How old are you?”
“Thirty-seven next month.”
