Brazing (Forged in Fire #2) by Rachel Higginson, Lila Felix Page B

friend’s—openness.
    “You’re going back home?” I inquired as the character behind the window stamped our hands indicating we were old enough to drink.
    Tate threw Carter a look that would kill small bunnies. Apparently, Carter got the drift and began to backtrack.
    “Oh, um, Bridge.” Sweet baby Jesus, I’m never going to outlive that name. “Can you get us a table while I score some drinks? You’re a vodka rocks man, yeah?”
    “That’ll do,” I said, stupefied at why Tate wouldn’t want me to know that she was going home. What was that girl hiding?
    I watched her and Carter at the bar. Her hips, rounded and curved, swayed back and forth causing that sexy little skirt to do the same. Carter whispered something in her ear and Tate threw her head back laughing so loud that even the singer on stage paused to listen. I loved that she had no care about who saw her and whose attention she caught.
    The guy next to her inched closer, I could see his game from across the room. He had the gall to rear back and take a real long gander at her ass.
    Have some couth, man. She’s not bacon hung up for inspection.
    I gripped the tiny circle table in front of me. This wasn’t happening. Tate was just a childhood crush—a fantasy never to be realized. I’d sworn off women for good. I couldn’t go through another Jesse.
    Before I knew it, I found myself behind Tate, slipping between Google Eyes and her, making it clear that it wasn’t okay—what he was doing wasn’t okay with me—or Tate.
    She was a friend, an old friend. And I was saving her from a creeper. That was it. Nothing less and certainly nothing more.
    “Darlin,’ you ever gonna bring me that drink?”

Chapter Six
     
    Tate
     
    Bridger’s deep southern lilt didn’t just float down my spine; it latched on with velvet and silk and caressed it, inch by so-slow inch. The shiver that rocked me to my core hit me in the same way; a sultry tingle that began at my nape and rolled over me until my toes curled and my breathing hitched.
    Where had that come from?
    Just hours ago, I had to blackmail him in order to get him here and now he was working on getting me to spontaneously orgasm in the middle of the stickiest, filthiest bar in Nashville.
    Good lord.
    I picked up his requested libation and turned equally as slowly around so that our bodies were nearly pressed chest-to-chest. God, I could feel the heat of his body wrap around me and the pure masculine strength that he pulsed with.
    For the record, this was not me. I did not swoon over boys, especially boys like Bridger Wright. I wanted my men to love fun as much as I did and to smile more than they could sulk. I wanted a man that embraced life and hunted down adventure. I wanted the life of the party and the optimist in every situation.
    Because, the Lord knew, I needed optimism in my life.
    I did not want Bridger’s constant frowns and gloomy forecast of thunderstorms. He was blotting out my perfect view of the sun and I didn’t like that I felt a sudden urge to buy rain boots and turn my face to the wind.
    I didn’t like any of that.
    That’s exactly why I lifted his short tumbler of straight vodka and took a generous sip. That’s exactly why I held his burning green eyes the entire time. And that’s exactly why I let my hip bump into his when Carter “accidentally” brushed by me.
    I couldn’t help it. I could admit that on occasion, I turned into a shameless flirt. But the night was young; hell, I was young . My twenties were made from nights like this and Bridger had the opportune advantage of being a childhood point of immature obsession.
    Why not make him suffer just a little bit?
    Just as soon as these butterflies quieted down.
    When my hip touched his, it met his fingers instead of the perfectly shaped bone that would be corded with muscle beneath his worn jeans. They immediately flexed inside his pocket and his eyes popped with the electrifying sensation. The touch had been simple, short