Page 9 of Common Grounds

Luckily, I don’t have to dwell on that for long, because he looks at me, his eyes dipping to my lips then back to meet my gaze, and I’m turned on all over again.

“What do you do for a living?” He changes the subject, his face eager and almost boyish with interest. Just when I thought he couldn’t get more attractive, he smiles this brilliant smile. I almost don’t want to look at it for too long; that’s how bright it is. His teeth are so white and straight, and his mouth creases at the corners under his stubble. I am somehow, yet again, desperate to feel it under my hands.

I cough, and my foot starts wiggling under the bar. Since our knees are still touching, he must be able to feel it, though his expression doesn’t change. He just looks at me expectantly.

“I’m a journalist,” I finally say, though I’m also not offering any more information than that.

“No way!” he exclaims. “Have you written anything I might have read?”

“Um…” I trail off, looking around the bar. My eyes snag on a bright blue bottle on the top shelf behind the counter as I avoid his gaze. “Not unless you make a habit of reading online local lifestyle magazines?” I raise an eyebrow, fully expecting the shake of his head. “I don’t blame you.” I let out a bitter laugh.

“Not your first choice of employment?” he guesses.

I take another sip and shake my head. “Not the first, second, or third. Probably not even the thirtieth. I used to work at The Gazette, but I was a victim of the layoffs that came after they were acquired.” It’s not usually something I talk about, let alone with someone I met mere minutes ago, but the words sort of fall out of me. Maybe it’s the beer, or maybe it’s the way Trevor’s knee keeps brushing against mine under the bar, or the way his eyes light up with each piece of information I give him. It could be addicting, this singularly-focused attention he’s turned on me.

I really wish I had charged my vibrator before I left.

I don’t offer anything else—not because I don’t want to. It’s because I’m lost in the feel of his leg pressed against mine and the intoxication of the way he’s hanging on my every word.

Thankfully, he comes to my rescue. “Sorry about Mike. He’s a good guy when you get to know him, but I know how he comes off.”

“How long have you known each other?”

“Since college. So…” he winces, and that’s really cute, too. “Over twenty years, I’m embarrassed to say.”

“Embarrassed because you are still friends with that guy after twenty years, or because you’re old?” I ask without thinking. My hand flies to my mouth, and my eyes go wide. I really need to slow down this beer. That was a shitty thing to say.

Thankfully, he laughs. It’s a low, rumbling sound that vibrates through me. “Both?” he asks.

I hum, then pretend to do some mental calculations. “So, you’re, what, forty?”

“Bingo,” he says.

“I’m thirty-seven.” I shrug. “Though, that still feels weird to say. In my mind, I’m still in my early thirties.”

He nods, understanding. “The 90s were ten years ago, and no one can convince me otherwise.”

I chuckle, and his eyes flash again. I lift my beer to my lips but am sad to see it’s empty. Not that I wanted more to drink—I definitely don’t need it, considering the woozy feeling in my belly. But I kind of like being around him. My cheeks hurt from smiling, which hasn’t happened in a really long time.

“Do you… uh…” he starts, then runs a hand through his hair. “It’s a nice night. Would you want to take a walk, maybe?” He spits out the question as if he’s afraid if he doesn’t get the words out fast, he won’t say them at all.

“That sounds nice, actually.” I also say it quickly, before I can think better of it.

His face lights up in surprise. That was clearly the answer he wanted, but not the one he was expecting. He jumps off his bar stool and slaps the counter. I try to hide a smile as I slide to my feet more slowly and follow him out the door.

Chapter four

Trevor

Somehow, I am strolling through the streets of downtown Baker’s Grove with Emery, who I am absolutely positive is the woman I saw running in heels past the shop earlier today. She’s even more beautiful up close, her hair shining as we pass under streetlights and her cheeks flushed in the warm, summer night.

Gone are the pencil skirt and heels from earlier; she’s replaced them with a white linen tank top tucked into loose-fitted jeans and sparkly, flat sandals. Even without the heels, she’s almost as tall as I am. I’d guess she’s about five-ten. She carries her height with a grace and confidence I’m not used to seeing in taller women.

We walk in silence for a few minutes, our steps slow and aimless. It’s clear neither of us know where to go, but we don’t want the night to end, either. I’m trying not to walk too close to her, but the sidewalk must be slanted or something because I keep finding myself inching closer. When my shoulder brushes hers, I sidestep quickly.

“Sorry,” I mutter, even as my hand flexes of its own volition at the desire to touch hers. A shoulder tap isn’t going to be enough tonight. I already know this, but I’m not sure what the next move is. Forty years old, and I’ve been such a recluse lately that I don’t know how to initiate contact with a woman. She doesn’t seem to mind it, though, if her shy smile at my apology is any indication.

She’s stunning. She’s funny and sexy and way out of my league.

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