Page 4 of Nanny for the Single Dad Cowboy
She huffs, crossing her arms. “Well, you thought wrong.”
I chuckle. “Guess I owe you an apology then. How about I buy you a drink to make it even?”
Her brow arches. She looks like a sharp girl, not easily charmed. But there’s a flicker in her eyes—she’s curious. I caught it when she nearly bowled me over earlier, the way her pulse jumped. And I see it now, the hesitation that’s not really hesitation at all.
She walks around the bar and slides onto the stool beside me, legs crossing, knee brushing my thigh just enough to make heat pool low in my gut. The stools are low enough that she’s not towering over me, even while I’m in my chair.
“Fine. But only because I’m thirsty,” she relents.
“Fair enough.” I lift a hand to the real bartender who’s finally made his way back to his position. “Two whiskeys. Make ’em strong.”
Her lip quirks like she’s trying not to smile. And for the first time all damn day, I feel like I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
The bartender sets down two glasses in front of us. She curls her fingers around hers without hesitation, nails painted a chipped black that makes me think she doesn’t give a damn about keeping up appearances. It’s refreshing.
“Apology accepted,” she says, lifting the glass like a toast. “Though you should work on your observational skills. Not everyone behind a bar is here to serve you.”
The corner of my mouth pulls higher. I lean in, letting the drawl roll thicker. “Noted. Though I’ll say this, if you were the bartender, I’d let you serve me all night.”
Look at me flirting with this woman!She looks younger than me, and I’m supposed to be here for business, not pleasure, but I can’t seem to stop myself. At least she’s of legal age if she’s drinking, and for tonight, that should be enough.
Her lips twitch, and she tries to smother it, but I see it; she’s fighting a smile.
“Smooth,” she says, voice dry. “Bet that line works back home in Texas.”
“Texas, huh?” I tilt my head, watching her reaction. “Guess my cover’s blown.”
She shrugs, pink hair slipping over her shoulder like a dare. “The accent gave you away. Not exactly local.”
I take a slow sip, watching her over the rim of my glass. She doesn’t flinch or look away. Most people do when they realize I’ve got wheels under me, not boots. Not her. Her gaze is steady, curious without being pitying.
“What about you?” I ask, setting my drink down. “You from around here?”
“Unfortunately.” She tips her head back, eyes rolling like the whole city’s an inconvenience. “D.C. and I don’t exactly get along. But I’m stuck with it.”
I laugh, low in my chest. “Can’t imagine why. Seems like you brighten the place up.”
That earns me a real smile. She shakes her head, muttering, “You really don’t quit, do you?”
“Nope.” I let the word hang, simple truth. “And you don’t scare easily, do you?”
She leans in, elbow brushing the bar, body angled toward mine. Close enough that I catch her scent—sweet vanilla with a trace of something sharper, electric. “Takes more than a cowboy with his own set of wheels to scare me.”
She’s flirting back. It leaves me feeling all hot and bothered, and for the first time in a long time, I’m surprised. She’s not playing it safe, not dancing around me like I’m breakable. She’s poking, testing, and waiting to see if I’ll bite.
And damn it, I want to.
Her next question catches me off guard. “So, what’s your room number?”
The words hang between us, light on her tongue but heavy as hell in my chest. I study her, waiting for the punchline, the nervous laugh, anything that would let me write it off as a joke. But she doesn’t, just looks at me, daring me to make her take it back.
Christ.
She doesn’t realize what she’s poking at. I’m not the kind of man you tease with an invitation like that. I either walk away or I take you up on it, and something tells me walking away stopped being an option the second she opened her mouth.
“You don’t seem like the type who makes that kind of offer lightly,” I say, voice low, testing her.
“I’m not.” Her eyes don’t waver, though I can see her pulse racing in the curve of her throat. “Doesn’t mean I don’t know what I want.”
