Page 6 of One Night Collision

“I keep a roll of quarters in the truck for just such occasions,” he says with that cocky grin and the dimple that I’m certain has gotten him into and out of trouble more times than can be counted.

“Alright. The shop is closed tomorrow other than making deliveries for weddings and funerals… luckily only funerals. That’s a mistake no one wants to make.”

His eyebrows lift in question. “I feel like there’s a story there.”

“Oh, there is. It wasn’t me, thankfully, but in a shop I used to work in, one of the girls accidentally mixed up the delivery locations and someone’s deepest sympathies arrangement showed up at someone’s wedding at one church. Then there were bouquets for a funeral at another church across town.”

He starts laughing at that. And the harder he laughs, the funnier I find it.

“I’m just picturing the looks on everyone’s faces,” he says.

“I don’t want to. That poor bride!”

“That poor widow,” he says.

The server returns with his credit card and he scribbles his signature on the bill. When he stands up, he holds out his hand, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world to put my hand in his. And the minute I do, I feel it. That spark. I don’t just like him. I don’t just find him attractive. This is something else. And when he glances back at me, I know he feels it too.

—-

The Stumble Inn is exactly what he said it was. A dive bar. The building is a cinder block rectangle in need of painting—a fact only highlighted by the numerous neon signs and the spotlights focused on the gravel drive. It’s on the county line and looks about as disreputable as any place can.

Damien opens the passenger door for me, and as I climb out, I give him the look. The one that screams “what have you gotten me into?” “You asked me to go to a dive bar, Damien. You didn’t tell me that a death wish was a requirement for entry.”

“It’s not that bad. I promise. If you don’t like it, we’ll leave… It’s better on the inside.”

It would have to be. With very low expectations, I let him take my hand once more and walk me in. The minute we step inside, I get it. This place, sketchy as it may look out front, is pure ’70s cool with red vinyl booths, padded bar, and wagon wheel chandeliers. “Oh, my god.”

“I know right? This place is a hidden gem,” he says, leading me to a booth in the back. Then he heads to the jukebox, which has pride of place against a wide support column in the middle of everything. He drops in a bunch of quarters, and old school country music starts pouring out. Nobody wails about unrequited love quite like George Jones.

When he comes back to the table, he doesn’t sit down, but instead holds out his hand. I’ve not slow danced with anyone in what feels like a hundred years. But as he leads me onto the tiniest dance floor in all of creation, occupied by one othercouple, I’m both excited and scared. “I’ve not done this in a really long time.”

“Just like riding a bike,” he says, putting my left hand on his shoulder before grasping my right hand in his left. “You know how to two-step.”

He doesn’t phrase it as a question. And yeah, in theory, I know how to two-step. As he starts leading me around the dance floor, I have to wonder just how often he brings women here. How often does he play the hero and then use that to his advantage? It’s not fair of me and I know it. But just because my ex-husband never hit me doesn’t mean he wasn’t abusive. I’ve got some trust issues, and slick lawyers—and Damien is that—are a big-time trigger. So why the hell am I here? And why the hell do I, doubts and all, not want to leave?

Chapter

Five

Damien

I got home late last night, later than I should've. Taking Maggie to a dive bar was a risk. Calculated, but still a risk.

Fact is, I don't know who was more surprised. Her that I took her there, or me that she liked it.

I have to meet the guys for basketball, and I'm not even sure I'm gonna be able to keep my fucking eyes open. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. I used to be able to pull an all-nighter and then slide into class right before the door was shut.

All it took was an energy drink and the adrenaline of living away from home on UK's campus. As I lean over, tying my shoes and adjusting my basketball shorts, I think back to the end of the previous evening.

"I had a really good time," she said, leaning against the passenger-side door of my truck.

"You seem really surprised by that." I tucked my hands into the pockets of my pants, rocking back on my heels.

"Truth is, I am. You're different than I thought you were."

"Believe it or not, I hear that a lot. Most think just because I wear Armani when it's a high-profile case and I wanna lookmy best that I've forgotten where I came from. I haven't. Now I just know how to dress and appreciate the finer things in life." I reached up, cupping her cheek against my palm. "And I make no excuses about what I want. Some call it cocky, I call it sure of myself."

"You are cocky," she laughed.

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