fiddled with her drink stirrer.
“Because I don’t poach,” Abby said, looking back toward the dance area. “You seem to be attached at the moment, and I respect that.” Even if I can’t respect your choice , she added to herself.
Matt’s warm hand, surprisingly rough and dry for that of a doctor, cupped Abby’s cheek and turned her face toward his so he could catch her gaze. “I’m not attached,” he whispered.
“Does she know that?” Abby whispered back, removing Matt’s hand from her cheek. She put her own hand lightly on his jaw and turned his face toward the stairs, where the girl from the museum was waving her arms and trying to get his attention.
“Crap.” Matt gave a half-hearted wave back before turning toward Abby. “I realize what this looks like, but I swear it’s not what you’re thinking. I came here with friends —guy friends—and we’ve been waiting for a pool table to open up there—which apparently it has. I don’t know where Zoe came from.”
“Okay.” Abby shrugged. She slid off the stool and onto her feet, gulping the last of her drink and setting the empty glass on the bar. “None of my business anyway.” She spotted Sarah at a corner table, huddled close to the dark-haired guy from earlier that evening. “The hottie is waving at you again. You don’t want to miss your table.” Abby said, looking at Matt and wishing he were different. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you around.”
As she brushed past him, Matt snagged her arm. “You will see me, Pretty,” he said, rubbing his thumb on the crook of her elbow and smiling when she shivered. “Tell me your name?”
Abby reluctantly smiled back. “Pretty will do. Bye.” She walked toward the bathrooms, hoping to snag Sarah along the way. No such luck. Sarah slid through the crowd and toward the dance floor, her surfer guy in tow. By the time Abby could get in and out of a stall and up to the sinks, she’d had time to make unflattering comparisons between Matt’s Barbie and herself, and she was feeling pretty blue.
Stepping back to the bar after a fruitless search for her wayward friend, Abby ordered an Amstel. The thump of the bass and the constant clamor was giving her a headache, and she wondered how she was going to get home if she couldn’t find Sarah.
“That must have been some nasty road rash when it was fresh,” a voice drawled from beside her. She glanced down at her hip. The motion of leaning forward to take her bottle from the server had pulled her top up, exposing the scabby patch that was still too sensitive for tight clothes.
The man next to her chuckled and ended his frank appraisal when she yanked her shirt down. He raised his own bottle to his lips, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen and had much worse than that.” Raising one muscled arm, he pointed to the deep scar across his triceps. “Middle of a race, I was shoved off my bike. A chunk of steel that was embedded in the soft shoulder gave me this. After sixteen stitches—” he pointed to the outside of his left knee, which had its own shiny, hairless scar “—another race. Another wreck.” He started to pull up his shirt, exposing a muscled stomach. “And there’s this one on my chest—”
Abby grabbed his hand. “I believe you.”
He dropped the hem of his shirt, grinning and rubbing the curly dark hair on the back of his head. “I was just kidding anyway. Wondering how far you’d let me go.” He looked at Abby with a raised eyebrow and chuckled when she shook her head. “Although I did wreck on a motorcycle while wearing a T-shirt and no jacket once and ended up sanding off half my chest hair.”
Abby had to laugh at his enthusiasm. “You sound pretty accident prone. Maybe you’d better stay off of all forms of two-wheeled transportation.”
“Can’t do it. It’s my passion and my avocation.”
“Bike wrecker?” Abby joked. He was a big guy, built broad and hard, but the open
“Because I don’t poach,” Abby said, looking back toward the dance area. “You seem to be attached at the moment, and I respect that.” Even if I can’t respect your choice , she added to herself.
Matt’s warm hand, surprisingly rough and dry for that of a doctor, cupped Abby’s cheek and turned her face toward his so he could catch her gaze. “I’m not attached,” he whispered.
“Does she know that?” Abby whispered back, removing Matt’s hand from her cheek. She put her own hand lightly on his jaw and turned his face toward the stairs, where the girl from the museum was waving her arms and trying to get his attention.
“Crap.” Matt gave a half-hearted wave back before turning toward Abby. “I realize what this looks like, but I swear it’s not what you’re thinking. I came here with friends —guy friends—and we’ve been waiting for a pool table to open up there—which apparently it has. I don’t know where Zoe came from.”
“Okay.” Abby shrugged. She slid off the stool and onto her feet, gulping the last of her drink and setting the empty glass on the bar. “None of my business anyway.” She spotted Sarah at a corner table, huddled close to the dark-haired guy from earlier that evening. “The hottie is waving at you again. You don’t want to miss your table.” Abby said, looking at Matt and wishing he were different. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you around.”
As she brushed past him, Matt snagged her arm. “You will see me, Pretty,” he said, rubbing his thumb on the crook of her elbow and smiling when she shivered. “Tell me your name?”
Abby reluctantly smiled back. “Pretty will do. Bye.” She walked toward the bathrooms, hoping to snag Sarah along the way. No such luck. Sarah slid through the crowd and toward the dance floor, her surfer guy in tow. By the time Abby could get in and out of a stall and up to the sinks, she’d had time to make unflattering comparisons between Matt’s Barbie and herself, and she was feeling pretty blue.
Stepping back to the bar after a fruitless search for her wayward friend, Abby ordered an Amstel. The thump of the bass and the constant clamor was giving her a headache, and she wondered how she was going to get home if she couldn’t find Sarah.
“That must have been some nasty road rash when it was fresh,” a voice drawled from beside her. She glanced down at her hip. The motion of leaning forward to take her bottle from the server had pulled her top up, exposing the scabby patch that was still too sensitive for tight clothes.
The man next to her chuckled and ended his frank appraisal when she yanked her shirt down. He raised his own bottle to his lips, shaking his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve seen and had much worse than that.” Raising one muscled arm, he pointed to the deep scar across his triceps. “Middle of a race, I was shoved off my bike. A chunk of steel that was embedded in the soft shoulder gave me this. After sixteen stitches—” he pointed to the outside of his left knee, which had its own shiny, hairless scar “—another race. Another wreck.” He started to pull up his shirt, exposing a muscled stomach. “And there’s this one on my chest—”
Abby grabbed his hand. “I believe you.”
He dropped the hem of his shirt, grinning and rubbing the curly dark hair on the back of his head. “I was just kidding anyway. Wondering how far you’d let me go.” He looked at Abby with a raised eyebrow and chuckled when she shook her head. “Although I did wreck on a motorcycle while wearing a T-shirt and no jacket once and ended up sanding off half my chest hair.”
Abby had to laugh at his enthusiasm. “You sound pretty accident prone. Maybe you’d better stay off of all forms of two-wheeled transportation.”
“Can’t do it. It’s my passion and my avocation.”
“Bike wrecker?” Abby joked. He was a big guy, built broad and hard, but the open
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