“Don’t know why you do all this,” he said. “It looks just as good down.”
My eyebrows rose right up. “I didn’t know you noticed.”
Nothing.
I stole a sip of his beer. A fancy German one in a big shiny green bottle. Hoppy. Nice.
“Don’t need all that shit on your face, either.” He took the beer off me and had another swig before returning to tending my hair. Our gazes met ever so briefly in the mirror, then his darted away. He took a deep breath, got busy.
“Thanks. I think.”
A shrug.
My fingers toyed with the edge of the counter, nails flicking back and forth. A nervous habit. He shifted slightly, moving a little closer. I could feel the heat of him at my back, the solidity of him.
“Maybe I should do this myself,” I said.
“You’ll be here all fucking night you try to do it by yourself. How many pins did they stick in this thing?”
“I lost count after the first dozen or so.”
He worked for a while in silence. Yeah. Awesome. Not awkward at all.
“Happy Birthday for yesterday,” he mumbled in a rough low voice. More pins were tossed onto the counter.
“Thanks.”
Carefully, he started pulling sections of my hair free, letting them fall down my back. The intent look in his eyes, the absolute focus as he did it, nearly killed me. What the hell was going on here? Talk about mixed signals. Maybe I’d have a cold bath, ice, the whole works. It would take at least that to put out the fire in my pants.
“Happy Twenty-Ninth Birthday for before Christmas,” I said, voice wavering. “I, um … I know I was there for the dinner, but…”
“But you were avoiding me.” The edges of his mouth slid into a smile. It seemed self-deprecating somehow. Definitely unfunny.
“Yeah.”
He stared at me in the mirror. And then he stared at me some more. God, I wish I could read him. Just for a moment even. I wished I could touch him even more.
“Funny,” he said. “We were only texting, but I got used to it.”
“Me too.”
“What do you want for your birthday?” he asked, changing the topic abruptly.
“Ah, nothing. You don’t need to buy me anything.”
“I want to get you something. So what do you want? What do you need?”
Him and him with his heart on his sleeve. “The handle on my canvas satchel broke the other day. Guess I could do with a new one of those, if you wanted to get me something. But Ben, it’s really not necessary.”
“A satchel. Okay. What else?”
“Nothing else. Thank you. Just a new satchel would be great.”
He shook his head. “Most women would be asking for diamonds.”
“Ben, I don’t like you because you have money. I like you because you’re you.”
His thumb stroked over the back of my neck, there and gone in an instant. Perhaps it was an accident. “Thank you.”
I plucked a pin from my hair, taking over the job. “We better get this done. It’s late.”
“I got it,” he said, focusing on my hair once more.
“Okay.” God he was beautiful. Why did I have to go nuts every time he came near? Just once it would be nice if I could not play the fool where this man was concerned. “I think maybe you should leave. I think I need you to.”
Thick fingers removed another pin, like I hadn’t said a word.
“Why are you here?” I reached back behind my head and grabbed his wrists, stilling him. “Ben?”
“Because apparently I’m shit at staying away from you.”
“Then I guess we have a problem.” Our fingers meshed, holding on tight.
“That’s putting it fucking mildly.”
My eyelids started blinking like crazy for some reason. “I warned you not to flirt with me again unless you meant it.”
He didn’t answer, just released my fingers and went back to playing with my hair, running it over the back of his hand, laying it over my shoulder. Such a stern look on his face, the frown embedded on his sharp features. My hands fell back to my sides.
And call me a blundering fool, but I was going there again. Apparently I would never learn. Hair half up, half down, and the buzz from the margaritas fading much too fast to help fuel such bravery. Damn it. I looked crazy—and hell, I probably was. Who are we kidding?
“Hey.” I turned, cupping his cheek with my hand. The bristle of his beard felt amazing, sort of soft and yet not quite. Even more amazing, he wasn’t stopping me or drawing back.
“Talk to me,” I repeated.
“Fucking hated seeing that guy all over you.”
“What? In the bar?”
A jut of the chin and he went back to examining my hair, carefully extracting another pin.
My hand slipped down, fingers skating over the side of his warm neck. The skin was so soft and smooth. “If it makes you feel any better, I pretty much want to scratch Karen and Meli’s eyes out with my bare hands. But that doesn’t change the situation here.”
The edges of his mouth turned down.
Fuck it. I edged forward, getting closer, leaning into his broad chest.
No.
No.
Apparently the dude seriously liked my hair. Because something in his pants was definitely making its presence felt against my stomach. The fire in my pants turned into a blazing inferno. I’m surprised we weren’t both incinerated on the spot. Everything low in me tensed, my thighs getting weak and strung out all at once. So this was what being really and truly fuck-me-now-or-I’ll-die turned on felt like. And yet, leaning into the heat and strength of him, I also felt perfectly safe.
Just not from rejection.
“Ben?”
“Hmm?”
“What is this? Do you know what you’re doing?”
“What I shouldn’t be doing.”
He slid his hand down my back, drawing me in firmly against his erection. Oh yeah. I dug my fingers nails into his neck, holding on tight. If he tried to ditch me now, I’d kill him. No joke. Death by hairpins. It would be messy but highly necessary.
Lucky for him, he didn’t.
“I mean it,” he said, voice devastatingly low but certain. So beautifully, perfectly certain.
“Okay.”
He covered my hand with his, holding it against his skin. The small acceptance of me touching him turned me on almost as much as the heat of his body. I rocked against him, rubbing myself against his erection.
The man swore up a storm. “Fuck, Lizzy.”