first move? Hell, didn’t look like it.
So she grabbed the soft fabric of his T-shirt, tugged him closer and said, “This,” before she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.
He froze. Shocked, no doubt. He tasted of liquor and toothpaste and his lips were strong, but soft. She pushed the tip of her tongue the tiniest way out, offering it.
He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, didn’t meet her tongue, but she felt him start to tremble. At least that. He was holding back, so she’d show him she meant business.
She tilted her head and kissed harder, pushing up from the stool so she stood on the rung, letting him know she wanted more.
Abruptly, her lips were ripped from his and her feet slammed to the floor. The stool rung had given out beneath her heel.
Jackson grabbed her upper arms to steady her. Her stool thudded to the carpet behind her. “Those chairs are kind of rickety.”
So were her legs. And her ego. Her sexy move had practically become a pratfall.
“You don’t want this,” he said, low. His steady gaze still held heat and at least he wasn’t laughing.
“Yes, I do.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“One swallow.”
“Your life’s up in the air. You’re confused.”
“Not about my…um…needs.” Flames of mortification washed over her. The hula girl, rocking wildly, now seemed to be jeering. You screw up big-time, haole girl.
“You don’t want me,” Jackson said.
Yes, I do. She opened her mouth to say that, except her gaze caught on the picture on the wall beside his head—Marilyn Monroe in velvet with full, lovely breasts. To her left, the hula dancer’s endowments jiggled. To her right, a hugely be-knockered model in a bikini smiled from a sports-car hood. Jackson was a breast man. She wasn’t want he wanted. The realization stung her cheeks the way the Jack Daniel’s had her throat.
“But it is late,” she said, pretending to sigh. “And I’m probably overtired.”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
“True.” She bent to upright the stool, then took a backward step. “Thanks for the drink.” She’d left the full glass on the bar. “Good night. Sorry about the head injury.” She turned and moved off, just wanting away from her humiliation.
“Can I cut you a piece of pie?” Jackson called to her, trying to make up.
“No thanks,” she called over her shoulder.
Hightailing it to her room, she flopped onto the bed, glowing in the dark, she’d bet, from the embarrassment. If only she could take back the last five minutes. She could still taste the sting of the liquor in her throat, feel the burn of Jackson’s turndown on her cheeks. Restless, she glanced at the clock. In the middle of a pink breast, the LED display said 3:30. Breasts to the left of her, breasts to the right of her, breasts all around her. What was the deal with breasts? She felt the urge to throw the clock against the wall, but instead she shoved the thing under the bed so it couldn’t mock her.
She would use her phone as her alarm. Speaking of which, she’d have to buy a charger if she wanted to keepphone service until she’d established an address with a land line. She’d need money to pay the bill, too. Despair threatened. She’d have to ask Jackson for a cash advance.
If she could even face the man after he’d rejected her. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow she’d made things worse.
A S SOON AS H EIDI left the room, Jackson sagged against the bar, making the thing rock like a shack in a hurricane. He felt as though he’d just survived one—or maybe an electrical storm and his hair was still standing on end. What a mouth she had. Soft and sweet and wholesome as the peach pie she’d made him. He’d wanted to sink into that kiss, savor those lips, drag her over the bar and into his arms for hours, for all night, for night after night.
Thank God for that Popsicle stick of a bar stool. Thank God for his ability to piss women off by saying the wrong thing at the
So she grabbed the soft fabric of his T-shirt, tugged him closer and said, “This,” before she closed her eyes and pressed her lips to his.
He froze. Shocked, no doubt. He tasted of liquor and toothpaste and his lips were strong, but soft. She pushed the tip of her tongue the tiniest way out, offering it.
He didn’t move, didn’t reach for her, didn’t meet her tongue, but she felt him start to tremble. At least that. He was holding back, so she’d show him she meant business.
She tilted her head and kissed harder, pushing up from the stool so she stood on the rung, letting him know she wanted more.
Abruptly, her lips were ripped from his and her feet slammed to the floor. The stool rung had given out beneath her heel.
Jackson grabbed her upper arms to steady her. Her stool thudded to the carpet behind her. “Those chairs are kind of rickety.”
So were her legs. And her ego. Her sexy move had practically become a pratfall.
“You don’t want this,” he said, low. His steady gaze still held heat and at least he wasn’t laughing.
“Yes, I do.”
“You’ve been drinking.”
“One swallow.”
“Your life’s up in the air. You’re confused.”
“Not about my…um…needs.” Flames of mortification washed over her. The hula girl, rocking wildly, now seemed to be jeering. You screw up big-time, haole girl.
“You don’t want me,” Jackson said.
Yes, I do. She opened her mouth to say that, except her gaze caught on the picture on the wall beside his head—Marilyn Monroe in velvet with full, lovely breasts. To her left, the hula dancer’s endowments jiggled. To her right, a hugely be-knockered model in a bikini smiled from a sports-car hood. Jackson was a breast man. She wasn’t want he wanted. The realization stung her cheeks the way the Jack Daniel’s had her throat.
“But it is late,” she said, pretending to sigh. “And I’m probably overtired.”
“You’ve been through a lot.”
“True.” She bent to upright the stool, then took a backward step. “Thanks for the drink.” She’d left the full glass on the bar. “Good night. Sorry about the head injury.” She turned and moved off, just wanting away from her humiliation.
“Can I cut you a piece of pie?” Jackson called to her, trying to make up.
“No thanks,” she called over her shoulder.
Hightailing it to her room, she flopped onto the bed, glowing in the dark, she’d bet, from the embarrassment. If only she could take back the last five minutes. She could still taste the sting of the liquor in her throat, feel the burn of Jackson’s turndown on her cheeks. Restless, she glanced at the clock. In the middle of a pink breast, the LED display said 3:30. Breasts to the left of her, breasts to the right of her, breasts all around her. What was the deal with breasts? She felt the urge to throw the clock against the wall, but instead she shoved the thing under the bed so it couldn’t mock her.
She would use her phone as her alarm. Speaking of which, she’d have to buy a charger if she wanted to keepphone service until she’d established an address with a land line. She’d need money to pay the bill, too. Despair threatened. She’d have to ask Jackson for a cash advance.
If she could even face the man after he’d rejected her. It didn’t seem possible, but somehow she’d made things worse.
A S SOON AS H EIDI left the room, Jackson sagged against the bar, making the thing rock like a shack in a hurricane. He felt as though he’d just survived one—or maybe an electrical storm and his hair was still standing on end. What a mouth she had. Soft and sweet and wholesome as the peach pie she’d made him. He’d wanted to sink into that kiss, savor those lips, drag her over the bar and into his arms for hours, for all night, for night after night.
Thank God for that Popsicle stick of a bar stool. Thank God for his ability to piss women off by saying the wrong thing at the
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