Page 11 of The Best Thing He Never Wanted

She’d promised him he didn’t have to tell her a thing about himself, and she didn’t for a moment expect him to conduct a post-mortem on the incident with the girls. He plainly wasn’t the kind of man who’d share how he’d felt at being cornered—or, probably, how he felt about anything else.

Once they had their drinks, they walked slowly back toward the doors near her seat.

“Big country fan, then?” he asked eventually.

She let out a short laugh. “Yes. I suppose I am. I grew up on the oldies—Johnny Cash, Dolly, Loretta Lynn.” She stole a glance at his impassive profile. He was only making conversation. She needn’t bore him with the artists she loved.

So she didn’t. “And you? Are you even here for the music?”

He met her gaze, those dark gray eyes sending little shivers racing over her skin. It wasn’t her fault; they really were quite beautiful eyes.

When he took too long to answer, she held up a hand. “Sorry. I already told you—you don’t need to tell me a thing. I don’t mean to pry.”

“It’s not prying.” A beat. “And I owe you that much. You rescued me.” He looked out over the crowd. “No, I’m not here for the music. Not saying I dislike it, but…”

She raised her eyebrows, wondering if speaking his language might coax him further open.

He lifted a shoulder. “Work. That’s why I’m here.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she let it go. Of course she was disappointed. But disappointment was nothing new.

When they reached the doors, he held one open for her, and once they were back inside the arena, she raised her glass a little. “I’d better let you get back to it, then. Work, that is.”

He scowled, but he didn’t disagree. He nodded instead. “All right. Thanks again. I owe you one.”

She couldn’t have said why she did it, but she reached out and touched his arm. “You don’t owe me a thing. I helped because I wanted to, that’s all. And I was glad to.”

He looked down at where her hand rested on his arm, and she withdrew it quickly, feeling foolish.

“Well. I’d better go and sit back down, then. Let you do your thing.” She didn’t wait for an answer but scurried back to her seat.

By the time she’d climbed onto her stool, he was gone, not even in his shadowy corner.

Oh dear. She hoped she hadn’t frightened him off completely. She’d guessed he was comfortable there in the shadows; if she’d been too forward, touching his arm like that—well, it was a shame he’d have to go and find another spot.

When the main act came out, she got swept up in it—the music, the atmosphere, singing along with her neighbors and a whole arena full of people. She glanced over her shoulder now and then at the by-now-familiar faces who came to dance behind her row on the upbeat numbers.

She was enjoying herself. And as the lights dimmed, she let herself register it. She was here, quite alone—her old life wrapped up behind her, the new one still ahead, unknown—in a strange kind of limbo. No one to answer to. No one to share it with.

She glanced at the dark corner. Not even a large, still American standing in it now.

Oh well. Perhaps, if fate had anything to do with any of this, it had put her here so she could rescue him in his hour of need.

Though as the lights flared bright neon pink and blue and the whole arena rose to sing a summertime anthem, she couldn’t help wondering what it might be like to be married to a man like that. She knew all about marriage. Hers had been perfectly… reasonable. There’d been nothing wrong with it—not from the outside, anyway. But somehow, she knew marriage to a man like Blane would be an entirely different thing.

She pulled herself together. She knew nothing of the kind; she was imagining, that was all. And she certainly didn’t need to let her imagination run away with her.

For the next hour she sang along, smiled at her neighbors, danced in her seat. There was a moment she slid down from the edge of the stool, about to join the ladies dancing behind her, but then she spotted him again. Blane, back in his dark corner, his pale hat turned in her direction. It bobbed, once. She nodded back, though she couldn’t be sure he’d meant it for her—and slid back onto her seat.

She took the last sip of her wine and leaned back, closing her eyes, letting the words of a slow, melancholy love song carry her away.

She froze when she sensed someone behind her.

Not one of her dancing friends. This was different. She peeked toward the dark corner—no sign of him there. Every little hair on her arms stood up when she felt a weight settle on the back of the stool. And then the warmth, and the—she couldn’t think of another word for it—the gravity of him. He was like his own entire planet. He leaned in, and that deep, gravelly American voice sounded close to her ear.

“You riding the tube back?”

She turned her head slightly, and a ridiculous little fizz of something buzzed through her chest when she found herself almost nose to nose with him. His pupils dilated a fraction, and he straightened.