Burn for Me(3)

“How about dunking a certain fireman in the dunk tank?” he asked, referring to his booth at the festival.

“I’ll make sure you go down with a splash.”

“All you have to do is hit hard,” he said, downshifting to that slow and seductive tone, one that seemed to linger on that last word, “And I’ll go down.”

Oh holy hell, why did she have two glasses of wine tonight? It weakened all her defenses. Now she was right back on the first bus to Lustville, fueled by flirting.

That’s how it went for the next half hour as she finished her wine, he knocked back his beer, and they chatted more about the party, and the music playing, and the festival. Even though Smith could never ever be her kind of guy, they’d always been able to talk about anything from the foibles of celebrities to the best technique for nailing a strike, from what makes a perfect microbrew to favorite desserts. Through it all, there was the common thread of ribbing and teasing, like the time a few months ago when he’d seen her on the side of the road changing a flat tire. He’d pulled over and offered to help, but she’d laughed him off as she twisted the lug nuts off. “I know what I’m doing, thank you very much,” she’d said, as he leaned against the frame of his truck. “I’ll just stand and watch, then,” he’d fired back.

“You do that and see if you can learn something,” she’d replied with a roll of her eyes. Then the teasing stopped and he strode over to her.

“Let me do it, Jamie,” he said, in a commanding voice, one that made it clear he wasn’t going to permit her to do it herself. “I’m not the kind of man who’s going to stand by and watch a woman change a damn tire.”

Then he took the jack from her and swapped the spare tire on her car in minutes flat.

“All done,” he said, and stowed the damaged tire and the tools back in her car, taking care of every single detail.

She knew how to change a tire, but she wasn’t going to complain about not getting her hands dirty.

The music shifted over to a slow song.

“You should dance with me,” Smith said. No flirting. Just a straightforward statement. It threw her off, the directness. Because it was the same way he’d talked when he told her he was going to fix the tire: in no uncertain terms.

“What? This is a party at a bar. It’s not a dance.”

“So? One dance,” he said, resting his hand on the bar so near to her hand that she wished he’d inch closer.

She looked around. The Panting Dog was still packed, tables were full, and the bartender was busily serving up more drinks. The party likely wouldn’t lose steam for another few hours, but she needed to cut out early since tomorrow night she’d be back behind the bar for her regular shift.

“I really should go,” she said, pointing to the hallway. “My purse is back there.”

“Then one dance on your way out the door,” he said.

She shook her head. “I don’t want to dance in front of everyone. It would look weird,” she said, her mind racing back to Diane and her ex-husband. He was always kissing her, touching her in public, wrapping her up in his arms and making it seem like she was the center of his world. What a lie that had been, since he was never truly serious about their marriage.

Smith leaned in, brushed his finger lightly against her wrist, sending a flurry of shivers down her spine. “Then don’t dance with me in front of everyone.”

“What do you mean?”

The noise and the crowd turned blurry, and Jamie’s focus narrowed solely to him.

He tipped his head toward the unfinished section. “Dance with me alone. Back of the bar.”

It wasn’t a question. It was almost a command, and it was one she found she liked.

“Why?” she asked, her breath catching.

“Why do I want to dance with you?”

“Yes. Why?”

He stepped closer, his words only for her. “Because it’s spring. Because the weather’s beautiful. Because it’s a lovely night. Because you are the prettiest woman here. No, wait. In the whole damn town. Because dancing is fun, and on nights like this, one dance can sometimes be the best part of the night.”

Her stomach flipped like a pipsqueak gymnast. They were only words, but there was something borderline lyrical about them. Whether he meant them or not, she didn’t know. But she liked the way they made her feel—sexy, pretty, carefree, and full of possibility, like this night.

Then his hand was on the small of her back—a light touch, but a thoroughly possessive one, as if he were marking her, and it was enough to turn her senses upside down. She shouldn’t flirt with him, and she definitely shouldn’t dance with him, because dancing could lead to her hands on his body.