Same Time Next Year(18)

Everything about him is a turn-on, frankly, from his fall breeze scent to his complete honesty earlier.

No. I’ll want more.

My dumb heart ticks fast at the memory of him rasping those words.

If I drink alcohol tonight, mistakes will be made. That truth might as well be written on a stone tablet and brought forth by Moses from the mountaintop. I will not get through the night without begging for a horizontal workout from this thunder god of hockey who loves his grandma. And then I will hurt his feelings afterward when I tell him I’m still not interested in anything resembling a relationship.

Although, if I’m being completely honest with myself . . . that resolve is beginning to wane.

Just the tiniest pinch.

When we reach our seats and he rests his arm along the back of mine, I don’t feel alone. And that’s not merely because I’m with another person.

I’ve felt extremely lonely while on dates in the past. Sometimes I even feel lonely in the packed bar where I’m conversing with several people at once.

It’s a very singular, unfamiliar thing to sit beside another person and know they’ve got my back. I’ll never again underestimate what it’s like to be understood by someone. That’s what it’s like in the nook of Sumner’s arm.

Warm understanding.

With a razor-sharp undercurrent of lust.

It’s dark in the small arena. The opening act, a female country duo with a harmonic style, is finishing their set. The seats around us are filling, but no one is sitting in front of us, because we’re in the first row of the mezzanine overlooking the general admission floor, the stage beyond. The air is cool and smells a little bit like marijuana—and there’s an exhilarated buzz dancing down the sensitive skin of my arms. It’s that preconcert excitement. More than that, though, it’s the need to cut loose a little bit.

Or maybe even a lot.

Sumner leans over to speak against my ear in that deep rumble. “Do you want something to drink?”

His breath on my neck lights a sparkler in my belly. No, I don’t think drinking is a good idea. That’s what I should say. What comes out instead is, “A vodka tonic, maybe?”

He nods once and stands but seems reluctant to leave me.

I’ll be fine, I mouth at him.

With a final suspicious look at the totally innocent bystanders around me, Sumner moves upstream through the crowd, a giant among regular-size people. I can’t help but watch him the entire way, admiring his shifting shoulder muscles until he’s out of sight. He returns ten minutes later and hands me a clear plastic cup, fizzing with tonic and with a lime wedge on top. There’s a bottle of water in his other hand.

“You’re not having a beer or anything?”

“I’m driving,” he says, appearing almost affronted that I would even suggest such a thing. “I’m driving my wife.”

Another round of dangerous tingles slithers downward, making my thighs feel loose and sexy. It’s growing impossible to ignore how attractive I find this man, mostly because . . . it’s more than physical. I admire him. I like him. And I’ve been missing him for two months.

Missing him a lot.

There’s even a chance I could trust him someday—and that?

That would be an even bigger leap than love for me. Because I don’t know how to trust.

Putting my blind faith in someone isn’t a quality that exists inside me, and I don’t know how to cultivate it. Briefly, I pull my phone out of my purse to check for messages. “Wow. I can’t believe the bar hasn’t called with an emergency yet. The night is young, I guess.”

“You’ve been working a lot lately,” he remarks.

“I have. Trying to make small improvements here and there.”

He turns his head, interested. “Yeah? Like what?”

I ignore the feeling I’ve been having lately. Or the lack of feeling, rather, when I talk about the bar. It has always been my dream to own Sluggers, but now that I do, the magic I was expecting . . . it isn’t there.

“Um. I’ve been coming in early to sand down the bar in sections, adding new varnish. Another couple of days and I should be finished. Riggs is going to love it.”

“Why?”

“He’ll be able to see his reflection in it.”

Sumner chuckles.

“The old register is gone too—I put in a POS system so we’re not handling as much cash. We’re officially a twenty-first-century bar.”

He visibly turns that over in his mind. “I’ll kind of miss the cranking sound of the old register, but that’s great, Britta. Necessary.”

“I couldn’t have done it without you.” Hearing the hint of wistfulness in my tone, I backpedal slightly. “Without the money.”

“Right.” A muscle slides up and down in his cheek. “I knew what you meant.”

I swallow hard, wishing things were easier between us. As much as I crave being around Sumner, there is this invisible knot between us tying tighter and tighter. I have no idea when it’s going to snap, but there’s a whisper of warning in the back of my head saying soon. But instead of being alarmed, my sex constricts, moistening me, and I dig my toes into the leather sole of my cowboy boots to counteract the rush of need. It doesn’t help.

“What else do you need done at the bar, sweetheart?”