Page 60 of The Difference Between

If he only knew.

“I don’t think you could handle my dirty thoughts, Davy Crockett.”

His brows lift. “Oh really?” He sets down his can of beer and gives me his full attention. “Sounds like you’re challenging me to find out.”

I sigh, bored. “A challenge you’ll never win.”

“We’ll never know because you’re too scared to go out with me.”

I laugh fully. “I’m not scared. Or going out with you.”

His eyes convey an unspoken we’ll see about that.

I fold my hands on the bar in front of me and study him as he chews and drinks and comfortably exists on the barstool next to me.

Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been able to read people well. I’ve read books on it, took a few psychology classes in college, and it’s a skill that’s served me well throughout my career.

But with Gavin, I’m less sure. He’s both exactly who I think he is yet nothing like I imagine. “What’s your superpower?”

Between bites and sips: “Superpower?”

“Sure. Everyone has one. Mine are numbers. Spotting unmet potential. Reading people to near perfection.”

“Can my superpower be that you’re attracted to me?”

I scoff. “Who said I was attracted to you?”

“You did.” His tongue darts out and swipes across his bottom lip. “Just a minute ago when you were reading me to near perfection.”

“I—” Damn him. “Said you were attractive. There’s a difference.” His blue eyes dance, amused, catching the neon lights from a nearby Budweiser sign. Flustering me. “It’s called objectivity. You can be attractive without anyone being attracted to you.” That might be bullshit. “And it’s not a superpower.”

His mouth makes a knowing shape before he takes another sip of his beer followed by a satisfied ahh!

“Fine,” he says. “You’re attracted to me but that doesn’t count. Noted.” My attempt to argue goes unacknowledged. “I’ll assume same goes with my jokes.”

“For once, assuming doesn’t make you an ass.”

He snorts. “Then I’ll go with using my hands.”

“Your hands?”

“Yeah,” he says, stretching all ten fingers wide as if needing to showcase them. They’re big hands. Callused and scarred. On a patch of soft skin, they probably feel as rough as a coarse sheet of sandpaper. That conjures up all kinds of new thoughts. “I like using them.” He looks at me, one side of his mouth creeping up. “Some people might say I’m even good at it.”

I really wish I was drinking alcohol.

“Oh?” Damn his eyes and mouth that can’t not smile. No matter how hard he tries or doesn’t, there’s no denying Gavin Nickels is charming as hell. And has hands he likes to use. “By whom?”

“You, for one,” he says easily.

I guffaw. “I know nothing about what your hands can do other than mow.”

He grips the can of beer, and his forearm jumps with a slight flex, bringing attention to his yard-implement tattoo. And muscles. “Sure you do.”

“Oh really?”

He takes an easy sip of his beer. “Yep.”

“That why you have the tattoo?”