Page 16 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"His loss," I say instead.
Her eyes meet mine, searching for something. "Thanks for saying that, Griff."
"I mean it."
She smiles and I feel something stir in my chest.
She finishes her beer and immediately reaches for mine, taking a sip without asking. It's such a casual, intimate gesture that it catches me off guard. We sit in silence for a moment, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator behind the bar and the occasional car passing on the road outside. When she sets my beer down, her fingers brush against mine deliberately, and the look she gives me from under those lashes isn't something I can pretend to misunderstand.
"Want another?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.
She shakes her head slowly. "Not really."
The way she's looking at me makes my heart hammer against my ribs. Her eyes are dark in the dim light, fixed on mine with an intensity that completely does me in.
I should look away. I should make some excuse about needing to finish up and get home. I should remember that I'm too old for her, that she's just passing through, that she's on the rebound from a relationship that imploded only days ago.
But I don't do any of those things. I just sit there, caught in her gaze like a deer in headlights.
"What are you thinking about?" she asks softly.
"That I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking," I answer honestly.
A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "And what's that?"
I run a hand through my hair, buying time. "Skye, I'm twenty years older than you."
Her smile widens. "Is that all that's bothering you?"
"You just got out of a relationship."
"Three days ago, yeah." She leans forward slightly. "And I've had three days to think about exactly what I want right now."
My mouth goes dry. "And what's that?"
Instead of answering, she slides off her stool and moves between my knees, tilting her head up to look at me. My hands hover uselessly at my sides, hesitant to touch her.
"I think you know," she says, and then she's rising up on her toes, pressing her lips to mine.
For a second, I'm too surprised to respond. Her lips are soft and tentative at first. Then something breaks loose inside me and I'm kissing her back, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that sends electricity down my spine.
The kiss deepens, her tongue sliding against mine as her fingers tangle in my hair. She tastes like beer and whiskey. I stand, not breaking the kiss, and now I'm the one leaning down, my hands moving from her waist to cup her face.
When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted. I should say something, make sure this is really what she wants, but before I can form the words, she's kissing me again, more urgently this time. Her body presses against mine, all soft curves and heat.
"Upstairs," she whispers. "Take me upstairs."
Part of my brain—the rational part that's being drowned out by desire—tries to raise a flag. This is happening too fast. She's vulnerable. I'm her boss, technically, even though it’s temporary. But then her hands slide under my t-shirt, her cool fingers tracing the muscles of my back, and rational thought scatters like leaves in a storm.
"You sure?" I manage to ask.
Her answer is to take my hand and start leading me toward the stairs. The narrow staircase is dark, and she climbs ahead of me, still holding my hand.
At the top, she pushes open the door to her room, and I'm struck by a moment of clarity—of seeing her in the dim light filtering through the curtains, her hair falling loose around her shoulders, eyes bright with desire.
"Skye," I start, not sure what I'm going to say.
She presses a finger to my lips. Then her hand drops to the hem of her cropped shirt, and in one fluid motion, she pulls it over her head.
