Page 5 of Wait For Me

“Wait!” The guy jogs up so he’s ahead of me. He pulls off his hat, and I’m so surprised by the move—and distracted by the sexy flop of dark hair that falls over his forehead—that I don’t realize what he’s doing next. That is, until his arm reaches over his shoulder and in one smooth move, he grasps the back of his shirt and pulls it over his head.

I halt, alarmed. He’s standing there shirtless. “What are you doing?”

He holds the shirt out to me. “Take it.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t walk around with no shirt.”

He reaffixes his hat on his head. “And you can’t walk home like that. It’s cold.”

He’s right. It’s late August, but fall is in the air, and my skin is raised in gooseflesh.

“Cora, please?—"

“How do you know my name?”

“They were calling it as you ran out.”

I swallow and look down.

But across the street, someone at the sports bar hoots. Another yells, “The gun show’s that way, bro!” while flexing his bicep.

He’s being nice. He doesn’t have to be here, subjecting himself to embarrassment.

I make a snap decision. I grab his hand and pull him around the corner onto the side street, into the shadow of the building’s wall. We’re close now; so close I can see gooseflesh on his shoulders in the dim light cast by the nearby streetlamp.

So close I can smell him. He smells like soap and fabric softener and beer.

Actually, that last part’s probably all me.

Our eyes meet, and my stomach swoops.

Him. I can kiss him.

The idea is absurd. I’m still a sticky mess.

But he hasn’t let go of my hand. In fact, as we stand there, our eyes locked, he runs a thumb over my knuckles. I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.

I want to kiss him.

Suddenly, I can’t think of anything else. “I—” I say, my mouth making a feeble attempt to say something. But now my lips have parted, heat curls in the lower part of my belly. He’s got beautiful eyebrows, I think absurdly. Dark slashes under his mussed hair, and a fringe of thick lashes to match.

He’s gorgeous. And almost… familiar.

Adrenaline shoots through me. Do I know him? There’sno one Ikindof know in this town. I either do or I don’t. “Wait, what’s your name?” I ask.

Please let this be a beautiful stranger.

He hesitates a moment, before saying, “T.J.”

“T.J.,” I repeat. I don’t know a T.J. “And you don’t live here?”

He shakes his head. “Just visiting. I’m staying up there.” He gestures to my workplace—the Rolling Hills Resort—glittering against the hill across the river from downtown.

Okay. He’s from out of town. A traveling… gorgeous man.

Just do it, Cora, before you lose your nerve.

“Can I tell you why I was at the bar tonight?” I whisper.

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