Page 42 of Awaiting the Storm
“I know the place,” he says, and then—God help me—he steps closer. So close that I can smell the faint scent of sandalwood I remember. See the gold flecks in his dark eyes.
“I had a great time last night,” he says low, his voice a whisper over my sweat-slicked skin. “Didn’t sleep a wink, thinking about it. About that kiss.”
I suck in a breath, heat rising to my face. I can’t look away.
He leans just a little closer. “Tell me you didn’t think about it too.”
I swallow hard. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I barely remember leaving the bar. I passed out hard. Slept like a baby.”
His eyes search mine, looking for the truth.
Glancing away before he finds it, I add, “I’ll wash your shirt and bring it to you tonight.”
He shakes his head. “Keep it.”
I blink. “What?”
“I like the idea of you tucked in your bed, wearing it.”
My heart slams against my ribs.
Before I can form a coherent response, the screen door swings open behind me, and Grandma Evelyn walks out onto the porch with a glass of sweet tea in one hand.
“You stayin’ for supper, Mr. Galloway?” she calls.
His eyes shift over my shoulder to her with a boyish grin. “Not tonight, ma’am. Some other time?”
I turn to see her nod once.
“You’re welcome anytime.”
“I appreciate that.”
He gives me one last look. “Tomorrow. Eight o’clock. Foraged Bistro.”
“I’ll be there,” I whisper.
He starts to turn, then glances back. “Got any more sexy dresses in the back of your closet?”
I narrow my eyes. “Don’t push your luck, Galloway,” I call after him. “Not a date. Remember that.”
He laughs and walks back to his truck, climbing in with practiced confidence. The engine roars to life. He waves once, then pulls out, leaving dust and loaded silence in his wake.
I don’t turn around until I hear footsteps crunching up behind me, expecting to see Charli or Shelby. Instead, I come face-to-face with Carl.
I stiffen.
“You tryin’ to make me jealous?” he asks, voice low and tight.
I exhale slowly. “No.”
“Well, it’s working.”
“I said no, Carl,” I mutter, exasperated.
I take a good look at him. He looks rough—sweaty, tired, eyes red-rimmed. But he’s still got that wounded charm he’s always wielded like a weapon.
“Galloway’s not your type, Matty.”
