by Meg Maxwell
“Here’s to parents who don’t know when to let go,” he said as he tipped his champagne flute toward hers.
“Here’s to a lot of people who don’t know when to let go.”
Garrett didn’t know if her added comment was in reference to someone else she knew or if it was a premonition that they were both too uptight and needed to cut loose. He chose to focus on the latter because, after all, once he was discharged from the navy next week, he would be letting go of everything and starting his life all over again.
“So how far away did you have to move to get away from your parents?” he asked, wanting to get to know her better. She took a sip and tilted her head, as if pondering how much personal information she wanted to share with him. After all, they were two random people sitting in a bar. Who opened up to a complete stranger?
“My mom lives in Florida.”
“Is that where you’re from?”
“Not originally. We moved a lot when I was a kid. My mom was a bit of a flake when it came to herself, but as her only child, she was always seeking greater opportunities for me. She’d hear about some new dance troupe or a hyped-up instructor and she’d pack up all of my tights and leotards and off we’d go.”
“So you’re a dancer?”
“I was,” she murmured before finishing off her glass. “What about you? Did you have to go far to get away from your parents?”
He took the hint that she didn’t want to expand on what might be a personal subject and refilled her glass. “I moved away from home the day after my high school graduation, much to the chagrin of my dad and stepmothers.”
“Stepmothers plural?”
“Well, Dad has gone through his share of wives. Not at the same time, mind you,” he clarified when it looked as if she was going to choke on her champagne. “But most of them kept in touch with me, even if it was only for the length of time they received their alimony checks.”
“My mom always hoped for an alimony check. But she and my father never got married so she had to make do with lowly child support. I never got it, you know?”
“The child support? She didn’t use it for you?”
“No, she did. I meant that I never got that whole depending-on-a-man-for-money mentality. I guess, sure, men should pay for their kids and stuff, but I always thought it would just be easier to make a clean break from the loser and start fresh. Support yourself.”
Wow, some guy must’ve really done a number on this lady. While it was refreshing to hear that there was a woman out there who wasn’t looking to get rich off some unsuspecting meal ticket, Garrett couldn’t help thinking of all the fake blondes back home who’d made it more than clear that they would love nothing more than to gain access to his large trust fund or the rolling cameras that constantly surrounded his family.
“I couldn’t agree more,” he said, raising his glass in an acknowledging salute. After all, cutting ties was exactly what he’d done when he’d left home at eighteen. He’d had access to everything his family’s money could buy. But it came with the heavy cost of bowing down to his father’s will and his father’s lifestyle. “In fact, that’s why my dad and I were arguing tonight. He doesn’t understand why I want to support myself and make my own decisions—live my own life.”
“My mother and I have had that same conversation multiple times. My girlfriend says that when I become a mom myself, I’ll understand.” Garrett made a mental note of the fact that she didn’t have kids. She wasn’t wearing a wedding ring, but that didn’t mean much to some women. “She said to think how sad I’d be if my mom stayed out of my life because she didn’t care about me at all. But you know what? I think I could live with that kind of sadness.”
He nodded his head in earnest. “I’ve been told the same thing. Yet, most of the time it doesn’t feel like caring. It feels like an ego trip. Like he doesn’t necessarily want the best for me, he just wants my life to be a reflection of his accomplishments and his success.”
“Yes!” she agreed and they clinked glasses again.
Here was someone who got it—who understood what his unorthodox childhood had been like. His head was lighter and his smile was freer. He must be feeling the effects of the scotch. Or the champagne. Or maybe a combo of both. “I don’t think it matters what we tell our parents, though. It never seems to sink in.”
“It probably never will,” she said. “Ten years from now, you and I could meet up in this same bar and we’ll be voicing the same complaints.”
“Promise me that in ten years, we will,” he said more seriously than he intended. But here was a kindred spirit. A woman who knew exactly where he was coming from.
“Oh, I don’t know. That sounds a bit pathetic.”
“Meeting up with me again?”
“No. That we’ll still be so stuck in our issues that we’ll need to travel back to Boise just to commiserate in our overbearing parents support group.”
She was right. They did sound a little pathetic. And that was the last thing he wanted a charming and genuine woman to think about him. “So Boise isn’t home for you?”
She darted her eyes to the left before reaching for the chilled bottle and refilling their glasses. “I’m in town for a ballet performance. I’m going home tomorrow.”
That explained the fancy outfit—and allayed his fears that she was a local groupie or some suburban wife out looking for an anonymous fling.
God, she was beautiful. Her high cheekbones, her pale blue eyes, her creamy skin. She was turned facing him, her legs crossed with one of her kitten heels hooked into a lower rung of the bar stool.
“You have a gorgeous collarbone,” he finally said, unable to look away from her.
“Did you say collarbone?”
“Yes.” He reached out a finger, tracing the ridge between her neck and her shoulders. He heard her sharp intake of breath, but he was well and truly buzzed and unless she moved away or told him to stop, he planned to touch her smooth, velvety skin for as long as she’d let him. “I’ve always had a thing for clavicles.”
Yep, he was definitely on his way to being intoxicated. Any more booze and he’d be calling things by their biological Latin terms.
She held herself completely still, but her tongue darted out and licked her full lips. “Why is that?”
“I just find them incredibly sexy. And real. It’s one of the few parts on a woman’s body that can’t be surgically enhanced.” He looked up into her eyes and saw her dilated pupils. Tonight, he didn’t want to worry about his father, or the new practice he was opening next month. He just wanted to think about the incredible woman in front of him. His hand trailed down her arm and settled onto her waist, and still she didn’t move away.
“I also find you incredibly sexy and real,” he said right before dipping his head and placing his mouth on hers.
She made a slight sound that could have been a moan or a protest, but she didn’t pull back. He tilted his head and opened his lips, coaxing her mouth to accept more of him. When she finally opened up, she welcomed his tongue wholeheartedly and responded by wrapping her bare arms around his shoulders.
He tasted the champagne on her tongue and wanted to drink her up. He wanted to feel all of her, but these damn bar stools were making things awkward. Without breaking contact, he rose to his feet, bringing their heads to the same height. He groaned when she allowed him to deepen the kiss, and he brought his other hand up to her waist to pull her closer.
A discreet cough, followed by the bartender’s voice announcing last call, finally cut through the fog of passion that had overtaken him. He pulled back his head but didn’t release his grip, wanting to maintain as much physical contact as he possibly could without drawing any more attention.
“I’ve never kissed anyone like that in a public place,” she said, her voice much huskier than it had been earlier. The pink flush cr
eeping up her cheeks could have been from embarrassment or could have been from desire. He was hoping it was the latter.
“Would you like to try it again in private place?”
“Like where?”
“Well... I could get a room...” What in the hell was he thinking? He didn’t go around propositioning women in hotels. But it wasn’t as if he could take her back to the officers’ barracks. And he definitely wasn’t ready to let her go.
His emotions were storming at top speed, and the alcohol he didn’t normally consume wasn’t helping him think straight. Yet for once in his life, he didn’t want to think straight. He ran his fingers along the satiny waistband of her pants and wondered what kind of undergarments she could possibly be wearing underneath.
She looked around at the mostly empty bar and again lightly licked her lips, which had remained mere inches from his own. “I already have a room.”
Garrett didn’t bother to ask her for clarification. Pulling his wallet out of his pocket, he peeled out two one-hundred-dollar bills and threw them on the bar before grabbing the half-full bottle of champagne with one hand and reaching for her fingers with the other.
Copyright © 2016 by Christy Jeffries
ISBN-13: 9781488002335
A Cowboy in the Kitchen
Copyright © 2016 by Meg Maxwell
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