Page 65 of Igniting Sparks
“Shit.”
He fishes it out and stows it safely in the basket. “Here. You can have my glass.”
“Screw that,” I reply, holding out my hand. “Just give me the damn bottle.”
But Braden, ever the gentleman, fills his glass and passes it to me. “Thank you.”
“For what?”
He frames my face with his palms, gently tipping my chin up until I meet his eyes. “For making me laugh. I haven’t laughed like that in years.”
“I warned you I’m the worst flirt in the world. You’ve seen it in action twice now.”
Look, I’m holding it together on the outside, playing along with my faux pas, but I feel like an idiot.Again.
“When was the first time?”
I scoff. “The garden incident, which we will never mention again after this moment.”
Braden takes a slow sip of wine from the bottle, his dark green eyes drifting toward the sky. “Actually, you were the sexiest woman I’d ever seen that night.”
“Right,” I mutter.
He turns back to me, and something in his expression makes the breath catch in my throat—intense, hungry, deliberate. “Trust me. You have no idea how many times I’ve replayed that night with a different ending.”
A flush rushes to my cheeks as I look away, chipping at a roughened board on the dock with my nail. He’s not the only one, but I’m too scared to put myself out there again.
Who knows what ridiculous thing I’ll do or say next?
I’m a one-woman circus act.
Braden senses my discomfort and settles against one of the dock pilings, the wine bottle resting loosely in his hand. “What did you want to know about me?”
I shake my head to clear it, momentarily confused by his sudden segue. “What? Oh, yes. My questions.”
Back to safe topics, which is for the best. At least that’s the bullshit lie I’ll keep telling myself, while trying not to remember how good it felt having his hands on my body.
I resume my cross-legged position, stealing a pastry from the plate and biting into the gooey sweetness. “Did you always want to be a tattoo artist?”
Braden shakes his head and pops a cookie in his mouth, dusting his hands against his pants. “Nah. I always knew I wanted to work in the art world, though. I was a terror in school—hyperactive and always getting in trouble. But the second I planted my ass in art class, things shifted. Drawing calmed my brain. Brought me peace.”
I get that feeling. “That was dancing for me.”
“Although, unlike me, I’m sure you were a perfect student.”
“Not even close. Traditional studies, aside from English, weren’t interesting to me. I had a plan, and I knew mathematics and science weren’t part of it. I was going to be the next Martha Graham.”
Braden drags his finger along the rim of the wineglass in a smooth, sensual motion.
Damn it, now everything he does seems sexual, which isnothelping my confused libido.
“Didn’tTimecall her the dancer of the century?”
My eyes widen at his question. “You’ve heard of Martha Graham?”
Most people barely know who she is. The woman pioneered modern dance—like, totally redefined it.
“I did a bit of research.”
