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I nod. “The world gets more manageable. That reminds me of a fight camp. For six weeks, eight, twelve, nothing else exists. Just the fight. Just the next training session, the next meal, and then after…”
“The world comes rushing back in,” she says eagerly, nodding, “and things get more complicated.”
“What’s complicating life for you, then?” I ask.
“I… uh…” She seems like she’s panicking for some reason. “I recently went through a breakup. Today, actually. I broke up with my boyfriend.”
I have to stop myself forcibly from smiling or showing any sign of how this makes me feel. This is another reason I need to be the mature one here. She’s not only younger than me. She’s emotionally vulnerable from the breakup.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Breakups can be tough.”
“No.” Her reply comes sharply as if she’s pissed at me for thinking the breakup could’ve been bad. “I mean, theycanbe, but this one wasn’t tough. Honestly, it was way overdue. I’m glad it’s over.”
Then she goes back to staring at the bar. She doesn’t know how badly I want to stroke my hand across her face, cradle her cheek, and hold her gently. The warmth of her hand is still pulsing through me, the heat making me think of all the other steaminess we could share.
“You’re young,” I say. “You’ve got plenty of time to find the right person.”
“I’m notthatyoung,” she replies.
I laugh dryly. “A junior in college? That’s young in my book, Molly.”
“Well, yeah, maybe.” She looks at me again, a stubborn quality to how she purses her lips. “I guess I’ve spent too much time reading old books. I’m used to reading about Victorian ladies getting married at nineteen without ever havingmettheir husbands. I don’t really feel young.”
She holds my gaze for a few moments. I’m tense all over, warning myself repeatedly that, despite what she says, she’sjustbroken up with her boyfriend. She might not think she’s vulnerable, but she is.
“I don’t feel old until I look in the mirror,” I joke.
“You look mature. Experienced, not old.”
I smirk. I can’t help it. “Is that a compliment?”
“Maybe it is.” That brave pout on her lips is so damn cute. “Is that okay?”
“From a beautiful young woman like you, I’ll take compliments all day long.” I lean forward, resting my elbow against the bar, but then she leans back and looks at my whiskey glass. It’s not like I was going to kiss her or anything, but a weirdly strong sense of rejection slams into me.
Is it weird, considering how badly I want to hold this woman? I want to pull her into my lap, grind myself against her, and let her feel all the hunger building inside me.
I take a sip of whiskey, just a small one, and see her wince a little.
“A bar’s an odd place to be if you hate drinking,” I say.
She glares. She’s fierce, shy, confident, and withdrawn all at once. She’s so gorgeously complicated. Maybe everybody is this complicated, but I don’t care enough to pay attention to them. Only my woman.My woman. Damn, that feels natural. It feels true. She’smine.
“Who said I hate drinking?” she snaps.
“You didn’t need to,” I say, just as fiercely. Maybe it’s my overactive imagination. Perhaps it’s the tension in my balls, the seed rushing up my shaft. I’m sure we’re getting angry because we both feel this passion and connection. “I can tell.”
“I don’t hate it,” she says quietly, just about loud enough for me to hear over the music. “I just… don’t especially like it, but I’m not judging you. Anyway, you clearly don’t have a drinking problem.”
“Oh, really?” I say jokingly. “Maybe I’m on two bottles a day, and I just hide it well.”
“No.Ican tell this, Duke. You’d look way, way less healthy. Your face would be all red. It’s a sad thing to say, but it’s true. A lot of the time, you can tell. Look at me, Miss Bring Down the Mood.”
I chuckle. “I was in a far worse mood before you walked over here, Molly.” I lean forward again, but not too much, not wanting her to recoil away from me. “Speaking of which, the barman has passed us several times, and you haven’t looked at him once. Did you come here to get a drink or to talk to me, eh?”
CHAPTERTHREE
Molly
