Bucking the Rules(52)

But the heels. Oh, he would dream about those later. Slender straps, impossibly high heels, delicate little things that made him imagine all sorts of macho, politically incorrect things like sweeping her into his arms to carry her over puddles.

And he was losing his damn mind.

She chewed on her lip a little. “Too much?”

“No. Right. Very much right.” He pulled one hand from behind his back and presented her with the flowers he’d picked out earlier. Yeah, they were from the grocery store. But it wasn’t like Marshall had a first-rate florist. “These are for you.”

He’d decided against roses—too cliché. Jo lived to sneer at clichés. Anything pale was out, not her style. So he’d settled for a cheerful flower—damned if he knew what it was called—in a deep purple. As she held the arrangement to her, the flowers skimmed her cheek and he knew they were the right choice.

He watched her eyes, the momentary panic followed quickly by reserved pleasure. “Thanks. I’ll, uh, go put these … somewhere.” She darted back in and closed the door on him. Then she opened it again with a sheepish smile. “Sorry. Come in.”

He stepped through the door and pressed a light kiss to her lips. She was nervous. It pleased him as much as it made him want to calm her. They’d spent plenty of time together. Alone, not alone. There was no reason to be so worried.

But that she was worried meant she cared. That the results of the night were important to her. That was a good step.

Water ran in the kitchen, something scraped, and then she darted out to the dining table before grabbing a chair and dragging it back in.

“Want me to get something?” he called.

“No!” Her voice was strained. “I’ve got … it. Yes!”

Well, he’d offered. A moment later she appeared, a pretty blue pitcher filled with the flowers. She settled it on the table, stepped back, then rotated it a quarter turn and placed her hands on her hips, analyzing. Finally, she shrugged and held her hands up.

“I know nothing about flower arrangements. Looks good to me though.”

He grinned. “Yeah, looks real good. Come on, honey, we’ve got reservations.”

She took his hand after a moment of hesitation. Still not sure what to make of tonight, he realized. Uncertain, but maybe a little excited.

He’d play on both. They were both important emotions in the grand scheme of things. So he’d use them ruthlessly, until he got them both where he wanted them to be.



She relaxed slowly, almost by inches. Trace enjoyed watching Jo more than anything else that night. He barely tasted dinner. It could have been a five-star steak or baby food for all he paid attention to it. But he would never forget the pleasure in Jo’s eyes when she ate something delicious, the flush in her face from her third—and final, she swore—glass of wine, her enjoyment of the quiet atmosphere with interesting art.

She was at home here. Comfortable. Her bar was home, too, but this was another sort of home. A coming back. It wasn’t anything fancy, likely not for her anyway. But it wasn’t peanuts and draft beer, cowboys in dirty boots, and women vying to be the next rodeo queen. It was … sophisticated. City.

Or as city as they could get within a reasonable drive of Marshall.

And she fit like a glove. But she fit in Jo’s Place, too, with her hair back in a ponytail, her simple black polo and jeans, and her brash, easy way of handling customers.

Jo Tallen. Multifaceted woman.

He waited until the waiter presented the check, then sat back. “Enjoy yourself?”

“Mmm.” She took the last sip of wine, dabbing a finger at the stray drop that clung to her bottom lip.

He resisted the urge—just barely—to reach across and lick her lips himself. God, she drew him like nothing else.

“Trace?”

“Yeah?” His eyes never left her lips. Couldn’t. He was mesmerized by watching the way they moved while she spoke.

“This was nice.”

“Very.”

“But you know it’s not going to change anything, right?”

The pleasure bubble burst and he looked up into her eyes. “What was that?”

She chewed a little on that bottom lip he’d been so intent on a minute ago. Then, as if she was mentally strapping on a suit of armor, she leaned back and slipped into Jo, the untouchable lover. “We’ve got a great thing between us in bed. And I like you out of bed, too, which is something remarkable for me. I like spending time with you. But I don’t want you to get any ideas about where this is going.”

Annoyance flickered, but he pushed it away. “Why don’t you tell me where you think I’m trying to steer you?”