Page 10 of Claimed and Catalogued
“Okay, well, for conversation purposes, I’m good at everything.”
I roll my eyes and arch a brow. “Really? Everything?”
“Confidence is a skill too. It takes work to believe in yourself as much as I do.”
“Oh God.” I glance out the window as though his inflated ego is annoying me, but the squeeze between my thighs tells another story. “You must be a hit at parties.”
“Bet I would be, but I don’t do that shit. I have a strict no peopling policy.”
“Seriously?” I glance toward him as though we’re the only two introverts on Earth. “Same. Tess is always trying to drag me out. I feel like such a bad friend ‘cause most of the time I just want to sink into the couch, eat my snacks, and do some cozy little hobby that makes me feel like I’m productive.”
Nick hums in agreement. “What’s your cozy little hobby?”
“It changes regularly.” I nod, noticing shoppers pass with holiday bags stuffed to the brim. “Sometimes I love to crochet or paint. Other times I just want to read. I regularly go through baking phases, though. Do you like pumpkin rolls? I make this really, really good version with a cinnamon cream cheese filling.”
“That sounds dangerous.” He sort of whistles out the words and I glance toward him expecting laughter, but instead he looks pretty serious. “My mom taught me how to make jam when I was young. So, I do that.”
I blink. “You do what? You makejam?”
“Yeah. Strawberry, raspberry, rhubarb. Sometimes I mix it up and add peppers. It’s relaxing. You stir, you wait, then you get something sweet.”
I stare at him as we pull up beside Mullet’s bar. “You, the human embodiment of a gun safe, spend your Sunday’s making jam?”
“Sometimes Saturday too.” He kills the engine and glances toward me. “Don’t tell anyone. You’ll ruin my reputation.”
I think I’m smiling, but I’m not sure. My brain has short-circuited. Maybe it’s his gaze, maybe it’s the warm, deep tone in his voice, or maybe it’s the massive shoulders and rippling muscles that pop through his shirt when he moves, but he has my head reeling.
The worst part is, he’s not even trying. He’s just sitting there calm and solid, and I can’t stop thinking about how those big rough hands would feel on my skin, on my neck, on my…
Oh God, I need to get a grip! Focus, girl!
“Well,” I say, turning away from him, “I’d hate to ruin the whole rugged loner who doesn’t make jam reputation you’ve got going for ya.”
He gives a small smile. “Appreciate that.”
My heart squeezes as warmth fills me all the way to my fingertips, and my palms ache to reach out for him.
What the hell is happening to me?
Chapter Six
Nick
Her laughter tilts her head back, her eyes sparkling under the neon beer sign as she takes another swig of beer. It’s nice to know she doesn’t go for the fruity stuff. Maybe it was the chicken sweater, but I figured her for a mixed drink kind of girl. The kind of girl who can’t have a real conversation because she’s holding something with tiny umbrellas and little twists of sugared fruit in it
She’s not what I expected, and that’s messing with my head.
The small-town bar here is crawling with all kinds of folks. A few tourists, probably here to take in the mountain at Christmas time, a few truckers driving through, a few lonely people that look like they’re two too many drinks in, and a shit ton of locals. You can tell who they are by the way they dress. Flannels, worn Carhartt jackets, boots that have seen a few solid years of work. They nod at each other like it’s muscle memory, like they all know who’s sleeping with who and who’s still pissed about it.
I’m not sure if this was the right place to get to know Evie or not. She’s been stopped a few dozen times by folks with updates on their life and questions about who she’s with. Trouble is, she doesn’t even know who she’s with.
Her brother’s file is saved on my phone. His mugshot, charges, and a list of places he’s been and people he’s hurt. I’ve chased guys like him, but none of them had sisters like Evie.
I take a sip of my drink, eyes scanning the bar out of habit. Two exits. One drunk guy near the jukebox. A couple of locals playing pool. The girl of my dreams on her third beer of the night.
“So, what do you really doing here, Santa? You’re not delivering presents, you haven’t mentioned family in town, so what’s your deal? I’ve got to know so we don’t sound like idiots at the wedding tomorrow. My mom can pick up on a lie like a dog sniffing bacon,” she says, her elbows pushed into the table, chin resting in her hand, eyes sharp and curious. She’s buzzed, but not sloppy, and she’s looking at me like she wants the truth.
That’s a problem… because the truth would blow this whole thing wide open. The truth would make me the villain, and for the first time I don’t want to play that role.
