and half the night, but he had no say in the matter. She was her own woman and determined to get that place of her own. All he could do was be there to support her.
Once he was at the bar, he decided to hang around for a while.
Surely not because it was a Saturday night and the bar was chock full of wranglers and douchenozzles, all of whom had eyes for a certain honey-haired waitress.
“So. Andrew.”
He turned around to see Emma standing behind him with a whisky. “Yeah?”
At the sound of his voice, she unerringly set the tumbler before him. “She’s been talking about you.”
“Um, who?” He had a pretty good idea.
“Melissa.” She cocked her head to the side and stared through to his soul with sightless eyes. “Want some advice?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t hurt her.”
What? This again? “I don’t plan on it.”
Emma snorted. “No one ever plans on it. But if you do hurt her, I’ll have your guts for garters.”
“Heard. But I’m telling you, my intentions are noble.”
“Noble?” The way she said it, she didn’t carry much truck with nobility.
“I really like her. I want what’s best for her.”
“And what is best for her?”
He shrugged. “At the moment, a friend.”
“That’s all?”
“As long as that’s all she wants.”
Emma blew out a breath, as though considering his words. “All right then. Drink’s on the house.”
“Thanks.”
She turned to walk away, but then stopped and glanced back at him. “Want some more advice?”
“Sure.”
“She really hates beards.”
He barked a laugh. “How do you know I have a beard?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Maybe I can smell it?”
The thought horrified him.
She laughed. “Or maybe she told me.”
Oh, thank God. And then, “Can you really smell beards?”
Her shoulder lifted. “I can when guys use that beard oil. It has a particular…odor.”
“Wow. I did not know that.”
But then there were lots of things he hadn’t known.
Like the fact that Melissa didn’t like his beard. He’d started growing it as a SEAL, because the facial hair made them stand out less in Iraq. Then he’d kept it because, well, because he’d kept it.
But now that he knew she didn’t like it…
Well, that fucker was going to have to go.
Andrew was supposed to pick Melissa up at Millie’s on Sunday afternoon, and then head out to Aron McCoy’s for Sunday supper, but he was late. Melissa sat in an empty booth and sipped her coffee, scrolling through her email messages as she waited.
The bell on the door tinkled and she glanced up.
Her gaze locked on the man who’d just stepped inside.
Her heart shot up into her throat.
Holy God.
He was gorgeous.
A gorgeous, beautiful hunk of man.
Shaved clean.
Her pulse thudded. Drool collected in her mouth.
How on earth had she not remembered how perfect he was?
Because it was Andrew, but bereft of that scraggly beard.
Holy God.
Had she thought him ominous with it?
He was practically devastating without it.
Especially when he grinned, which he did now. Dimples erupted.
She sat there, gaping, like a landed trout.
“You ready?” he asked.
She shook her head, speechless. Practically mindless. “I need a minute.”
“Um…okay.” He sat on the bench across from her.
She stared.
Stared so long he rubbed his cheeks self-consciously. “I, ah, do you like it?”
Like it?
Hell. How did she answer that?
“Melissa?”
“Andrew.” Something of a sigh.
“Emma said…”
Her stomach churned. “What did Emma say?”
“She told me you don’t like beards. So…I shaved it.”
“For me?”
He nodded.
Something in her heart trilled. No one had ever made such a gesture for her. Baron would certainly never have lifted a finger to please her.
“So… Do you like it?”
“I like it.” She hated that her voice broke. “I like it very much. It makes you…”
“Yeah?”
She sucked in a deep breath. “It makes it easier to see you.”
“It was just a beard,” he
Once he was at the bar, he decided to hang around for a while.
Surely not because it was a Saturday night and the bar was chock full of wranglers and douchenozzles, all of whom had eyes for a certain honey-haired waitress.
“So. Andrew.”
He turned around to see Emma standing behind him with a whisky. “Yeah?”
At the sound of his voice, she unerringly set the tumbler before him. “She’s been talking about you.”
“Um, who?” He had a pretty good idea.
“Melissa.” She cocked her head to the side and stared through to his soul with sightless eyes. “Want some advice?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t hurt her.”
What? This again? “I don’t plan on it.”
Emma snorted. “No one ever plans on it. But if you do hurt her, I’ll have your guts for garters.”
“Heard. But I’m telling you, my intentions are noble.”
“Noble?” The way she said it, she didn’t carry much truck with nobility.
“I really like her. I want what’s best for her.”
“And what is best for her?”
He shrugged. “At the moment, a friend.”
“That’s all?”
“As long as that’s all she wants.”
Emma blew out a breath, as though considering his words. “All right then. Drink’s on the house.”
“Thanks.”
She turned to walk away, but then stopped and glanced back at him. “Want some more advice?”
“Sure.”
“She really hates beards.”
He barked a laugh. “How do you know I have a beard?”
Her nose wrinkled. “Maybe I can smell it?”
The thought horrified him.
She laughed. “Or maybe she told me.”
Oh, thank God. And then, “Can you really smell beards?”
Her shoulder lifted. “I can when guys use that beard oil. It has a particular…odor.”
“Wow. I did not know that.”
But then there were lots of things he hadn’t known.
Like the fact that Melissa didn’t like his beard. He’d started growing it as a SEAL, because the facial hair made them stand out less in Iraq. Then he’d kept it because, well, because he’d kept it.
But now that he knew she didn’t like it…
Well, that fucker was going to have to go.
Andrew was supposed to pick Melissa up at Millie’s on Sunday afternoon, and then head out to Aron McCoy’s for Sunday supper, but he was late. Melissa sat in an empty booth and sipped her coffee, scrolling through her email messages as she waited.
The bell on the door tinkled and she glanced up.
Her gaze locked on the man who’d just stepped inside.
Her heart shot up into her throat.
Holy God.
He was gorgeous.
A gorgeous, beautiful hunk of man.
Shaved clean.
Her pulse thudded. Drool collected in her mouth.
How on earth had she not remembered how perfect he was?
Because it was Andrew, but bereft of that scraggly beard.
Holy God.
Had she thought him ominous with it?
He was practically devastating without it.
Especially when he grinned, which he did now. Dimples erupted.
She sat there, gaping, like a landed trout.
“You ready?” he asked.
She shook her head, speechless. Practically mindless. “I need a minute.”
“Um…okay.” He sat on the bench across from her.
She stared.
Stared so long he rubbed his cheeks self-consciously. “I, ah, do you like it?”
Like it?
Hell. How did she answer that?
“Melissa?”
“Andrew.” Something of a sigh.
“Emma said…”
Her stomach churned. “What did Emma say?”
“She told me you don’t like beards. So…I shaved it.”
“For me?”
He nodded.
Something in her heart trilled. No one had ever made such a gesture for her. Baron would certainly never have lifted a finger to please her.
“So… Do you like it?”
“I like it.” She hated that her voice broke. “I like it very much. It makes you…”
“Yeah?”
She sucked in a deep breath. “It makes it easier to see you.”
“It was just a beard,” he
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