Page 6 of Hooked
Was it wrong that she turned her palm into his abs to cop a feel? Jeremy’s abdominal muscles were a thing of beauty. He worked hard. It would be wrong of her to ignore them. She wasn’t usually into super-cut muscles, but she made an exception for Jeremy. He’d earned the muscles from doing outdoorsy things like kayaking and climbing mountains and… chopping wood? She had no idea. Mountain man stuff. They weren’t just abs. They werewholesomeabs.
Jeremy turned and pulled her into his chest. The song the band was playing was medium tempo, but the dance floor at the Ice House was crowded and they had to stand close. Tayla’s eyes only came to Jeremy’s chin. He linked their hands together, palm to palm, as his other hand rested at the small of her back.
He could dance too. It wasn’t fair. Tayla felt herself zoning out, surrounded by the press of the crowd, the music, and the feel of Jeremy Allen’s arms around her.
She felt his chest rumble and looked up. “Did you say something?”
His eyes crinkled with his smile. “Weren’t you listening?”
“I was dancing.”
“And I was telling you you’re a good dancer.”
“Thanks.” She felt flustered.Dammit. “You too.”
“I don’t dance much.”
“You should.”
He wrinkled his nose. “Nah. I’m picky.”
“About music?”
Jeremy leaned down and his breath tickled her ear. “About partners.”
Tayla drew in the scent of his skin and a hint of his cologne. He smelled like sunshine and pine and a log cabin with a cozy fire. Jeremy Allen was the scent equivalent of a muscled action hero—pick your favorite Chris—in an ad for flannel shirts at Christmas. And judging from the length of time he lingered at her ear, she had no doubt he knew it.
Oh, he was good. He was very good.
And so very inconvenient.
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Chapter Two
“Pop!”Jeremy stood in the doorway of the kitchen in the two-story Craftsman house on Ash Street and yelled down the hall. “We gotta get going.”
His grandfather hated it when he yelled down the hall. He hated when Jeremy bugged him about the time. He also hated when they made it out to Lower Lake and the fish weren’t biting anymore.
Jeremy had loaded the gear and tackle and pulled the truck out of the garage so his grandfather could make it down the ramp and directly into the old Chevy. Now he was just waiting. The sun wasn’t quite up yet, but it would be breaking over the mountains by the time they made it to the lake.
“Pop!” He stood in the doorway and called again. He’d heard the old man moving around, so he knew he was awake. The door cracked open.
“I’m coming,” Pop growled. “Hold your horses, young man.”
“Holding them. The truck’s loaded.”
“Coffee?”
“In the thermos.” The battered green thermos was the same one his grandfather had filled with hot chocolate for him when he was a kid. Now he filled it with black coffee for his pop. “Cary is bringing breakfast tacos.”
“We ain’t eating fish for breakfast, we ain’t doing our job.” Augustus Allen opened the bedroom door with his cane and walked slowly toward the kitchen door.
“Just in case,” Jeremy said. “We can save the fish for lunch.”
His pop muttered something unintelligible while he shuffled down the hall, straight through the kitchen, and toward the open door. The old man was wearing his usual uniform of overalls, a worn thermal shirt, and a quilted flannel shirt. His wrinkled brown face was shaved clean, just like it had been every day of his adult life, and his silver hair was clipped short against his skull.
“Morning, Pop.” Jeremy leaned over and kissed his pop’s head. “How’d you sleep?”
