Page 18 of Chasing Wildflowers
The nickname slides off his tongue effortlessly. His voice is a low rumble that sinks into me, settling heavy in my chest.
Strong hands steady me, warm and solid. I look up and directly into Jameson’s stormy eyes. That maddening, knowing smirk tugging at his lips like he already knows exactly what I was just thinking about. His scent invades my senses, making me dizzy. His touch burns into my skin, branding me.
Damn it. Of course, I would run into him, literally, while I was thinking about him. Haha. Very funny universe.
“Lane?” His voice, low and smooth, vibrates through me.
I blink hard, realizing I’ve been staring. Heat crawls up my neck and I stumble back, needing air, space, anything to regain control. “S-sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”
His gaze lingers, slow and deliberate, like he’s picking me apart one thought at a time. “Rough day?”
I let out a nervous laugh. “Rough hour.” Because of you.
One brow arches.
I sigh, and give him the edited version. “It was book club night, and the ladies can get a little intense.”
He chuckles, the sound rich and deep, sends chills skating over my skin. “I heard book debates can become a little heated.”
“You have no idea.” I nod toward the bottle ofJack Danielsclutched in his hand. “Not going to the bar tonight?”
Smooth, Lane. Real smooth.
He smirks, leaning just a fraction closer, enough that I feel the pull of his gravity. “Nah. I don’t like to drink there when that bartender’s working.”
My brows shoot up in surprise. “What’s wrong with Rodney?”
“Nothing.” His voice drops lower. “I just don’t think he’s nickname worthy.”
My cheeks blaze, but my body instinctively leans into him. His rich scent wraps around me, thick and intoxicating. His gaze lingers on me, heavy and unrelenting. It’s a look that says he’s already imagined peeling me out of my clothes, and he’s in no rush because he’s certain I’ll let him.
I tear my eyes away, suddenly needing to move, to do something. “I should…get my wine.”
His smile curves, slow and dangerous. “Don’t let me stop you.” He takes a step toward the exit, then pauses, tossing a wink over his shoulder. “Night, Wildflower.”
That wink. It’s to let me know he knows exactly what I’ll be doing tonight, and exactly who I’ll be thinking of while I do it.
I stare after him, feet bolted to the floor. My pulse beats in time with his footsteps echoing through the building. Only when he disappears out the door am I able to look away. I stalk to the back of the store, and grab two bottles off the shelf. To hell with restraint.
When I reach the counter, the cashier is leaning on her elbows, staring out the door, dreamy-eyed. I set my wine on the belt and clear my throat.
She tears her gaze from the door and looks at me, cartoon hearts still in her eyes. “Did you see that man who just walked out?”
“Nope,” I lie smoothly, sliding the bottles forward. Good thing I grabbed the second one.
Eight
Jameson
I sit at the tiny motel table, a glass of whiskey gripped tightly in my hand. Tipping it back, I let the burn slide down, the liquid scraping my throat in a way that wakes every nerve.
I was actively avoiding Lane. Going as far as buying a bottle of whiskey from the liquor store so I wouldn't be tempted to go to the bar.
But the universe has a fucked-up sense of humor. Instead of keeping my distance, I ran into her at the liquor store. Or more accurately, she ran into me.
Oh, the irony.
I throw back the rest of the whiskey, slamming the glass down with a hard clack, and stalk to the bathroom. I turn the shower on full; hot water hisses and thunders against the tile in a steady roar that matches my heartbeat.
