But, aw hell, now a couple of yahoos flanked her, right and left. I hadn’t planned on going over and talking to her. I’d planned on sitting there while my bartender buddy Dave made sure she was OK. He was a good guy. I could cover for him while he gave her a ride wherever she needed to go.
Because she sure as hell wasn’t driving anywhere else tonight in that toy car of hers. It looked like a clown car, parked up on the sidewalk in front of the bar. How the hell had she made it even a mile in such an asinine ride? She could have missed a curve so easy, skidding out on black ice into the Mad River that wound its way like a snake alongside the state road.
That’s what did me in. She really did need help. Yahoo number two said something to her, and I saw a flash of vulnerability in her eyes. The ice queen with her perfect nails, salon-ready hair and pretty little white silk top was trying to look like she had her shit together. But she didn’t. She was scared. And she had reason to be. That car in a storm like this was a death trap. And I didn’t know those guys. They weren’t from around here. It was time for them to leave.
I stood up and they didn’t put up a fight. Being as big as me had its advantages. It had its disadvantages, too. You looked like a giant bear in a tux, and some girls said you were just too much. But that didn’t happen often out in the middle of nowhere. Not that many black tie affairs and society girls out in Watson, Vermont.
I sat down next to her, trying to make up my mind. I already could tell this girl would drive me crazy. She looked high-maintenance. Materialistic.
But how was it that she smelled so damn good? She fiddled with a thin gold necklace around her neck, delicate and fine like her. She tossed her hair behind her shoulder and it cascaded back, soft and golden. Our legs touched. I was a big man, so I didn’t go out of my way to make it happen, but I could have pulled away once it did.
I didn’t. She felt so slender beside me, so feminine. It would be easy to wrap my arm around her waist, pull her closer. She’d fit against me real good, up on my lap. I could pull her up there and bury my face in that hair, figure out if that’s what smelled so inviting, or maybe it was her skin? I could investigate that, too, under her jaw, along her neck where I could see her pulse pound.
I took a sip of my beer and pulled my attention away. This woman was trouble. I liked life in my small pond, the water smooth and glassy. She was already making too many waves. Out the window, I caught a glimpse of her bright red toy car. A fucking MINI convertible in this snow. What had she been thinking?
“You’re not driving out of here tonight in that MINI convertible,” I told her.
She didn’t seem to be listening. She was looking straight at me, but she had a dreamy look on her face like she couldn’t get enough of what she saw. Her tongue darted out, flicking along her plump bottom lip. She needed to stop looking at me like that. I shifted my weight, my cock straining for release.
I repeated myself and that seemed to snap her out of it. Turned out she didn’t have GPS in her car, either. Her plan was to rely on her cell phone in this weather. I could just see her holding her pink sparkly phone up in one hand, trying to peer out the frozen window and find her way out to some condo she’d apparently rented. Her car would be wrapped around a tree within minutes.
I took a sip of my beer. I knew what I was about to say. And I knew I shouldn’t say it. I was asking for trouble. I was an island, a loner, a hermit by choice. I’d simplified my life, cleared out all the complications, the junk. Why would I possibly get involved even on a small scale with this train wreck of epic proportions?
Dave stood over at the other end of the bar wiping down a glass. I was sure he’d give her a ride in his truck and he wouldn’t be an asshole about it, either. He’d make sure she was safe.
But I wanted to make sure she was safe.
“I’ll get you where you need to go,” I heard myself grumble. She didn’t say anything. She looked down at the bar, her fingers gripping the wood.
I realized I probably had come off like a creep, a big, scruffy, scary-looking guy giving her a lecture about her lack of preparedness. She probably hadn’t ever driven in weather like this. Turning toward her, trying to soften it up a touch, I added, “you’ll be safe with me.”
She nodded, but didn’t answer.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Vi.” She spoke in a quiet voice, nothing like the bossy tone she’d tried to use with those other guys. Vi. I had to admit, it didn’t seem to suit her.
“Is Vi short for…?”
“Violet.” She looked up as she said it, and damn if her eyes didn’t look nearly violet blue. It felt like a light gust of wind could have knocked me over. And I was I solid man. Gusts of wind didn’t so much bother me.
“Violet,” I repeated. Now that worked. Violets. They bloomed in late winter, early spring, ushering in the thaw. As a kid I’d lived in England for a couple of years with my grandmother. At the right time of year the hills in Yorkshire would be covered in violets, deep purple blue. I remembered learning how you could eat violets, suck the sweet nectar from their stem.
I bet Violet tasted even better.
She said something. “What’s that?” I hadn’t caught it. I’d been too caught up in thinking about licking and sucking.
“What’s your name?”
“Heath.”
“Is Heath short for…?”
I shook my head. I wasn’t going to give her that. She didn’t need to know my full name was Heathcliff. That would raise all kinds of questions. Heathcliff wasn’t an everyday average Joe type of a name. Being named after the brooding romantic hero from Emily Bronte’s classic Wuthering Heights wasn’t typical. Unless your grandmother was a baroness and that was the sort of thing your family did.
“Do you live here?”
“In this bar? No.” I had to tease her. She looked so incredulous that she’d discovered me there.
“I don’t mean that.” She flushed light pink, biting that lip again and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. I’d be happy to bite that lip for her. I’d pink her right up. “I mean, do you live in Watson?”
“Yup.” I couldn’t affect the true Vermonter response, “A-yuh.” Not yet, at least. I’d only lived in Vermont for four years. I’d have to make it at least a decade before I could adopt that local dialect with a straight face.
“And you’re from L.A?” I asked. I’d overheard her tell Dave. I c
ouldn’t think of a place more opposite from here. She’d traveled from one polar end of the planet to the other.
“I’ve lived there almost seven years now. I moved out right after high school.” So she was my age. Interesting.
“Where did you grow up?” I knew Dave over in his corner must be busting at the seams wondering what in the hell was I doing. Big silent Heath, chatting up some California blonde. I’d probably said more to this girl than I had to a bunch of local girls over the past few months. The strong silent type, that was how I rolled. At least, that was how I usually rolled.
Maybe it was because I knew she had to just be passing through. In a town this small, you hit on a local and then you had to see her again and again. You had to be damn sure you were in it to win it. But Violet? I’d bet big money she’d be gone this time tomorrow, no turning back. I might never see her again.
“New Jersey,” she answered.
“What town?”
“Englewood.”
I nodded, but didn’t say a word about the fact that we’d grown up a mere 10 miles away from each other. No one in Watson knew that I’d grown up on Manhattan’s wealthy Upper East Side, and I wasn’t about to start yapping about it now.
Plus, telling her we’d grown up near each other wouldn’t be saying we had anything in common. From what I knew of Englewood—and I had to admit, I hadn’t spent a lot of time there—it wasn’t posh. Parts of it were pretty rough. Apparently the now glam and polished Violet had grown up a Bridge and Tunnel girl, living on the wrong side of the Hudson River. My kind would have turned their noses up at hers.
“Anyway, that’s a long time ago.” She waved her manicured hand dismissively.
Exactly how I felt about my childhood. It didn’t matter now. “So, where are you trying to get to tonight?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Um,” she swallowed, still seeming flustered. “I’m supposed to head to a condo. Some guy named Gary has the key?” She showed me an email on her phone. Gary Bartlett. He owned some properties up by the big, commercial snow resort a town over. Overpriced for what you got, if you asked me.