The Break-Up Psychic by Emily Hemmer Page B

chest. It’s through sheer willpower alone that I’m able to stop myself from stroking his pecs through the soft cotton of his t-shirt.
    “Sorry,” I blurt out, yanking my paws away from his incredible body.
    “Sorry for what?” he asks, amused, his trademark grin firmly in place, challenging me. I shift on my feet and look away from him, avoiding the knowing look in his eyes. It’s obvious to me, him, and every redneck in Whiskey Tango that I want him. Putting distance between us is my only chance. I take a step away and end up running into a sidestepping line dancer in the process. Sam pulls me back toward him and places a heavy hand against the small of my back, trapping me.
    He leans close to me, murmuring in my ear, “Tell you what. How about I buy us some drinks at the bar while we wait for Luanne to join us?”
    Good, more drinks. I always make my best decisions when alcohol is involved.
    “How about a Coke?” I suggest, ignoring the feel of his thumb as it rubs small circles into my lower back.
    He holds me close for another heartbeat then turns me around so I’m positioned to lead the way through the rowdy crowd. He keeps his hand pressed against my back and it’s seriously impeding my ability to walk normally. I resist the urge to move slower to allow more hand-on-back time. As we reach the bar he releases me, offering up a vacant stool as he calls out an order to the bartender.
    “So, I’ve been thinking about you.” It’s a casual statement but it sends a shock through me, starting in my ears and landing with a thud in my nether region. He’s standing very close to me, which I suspect may be part of his plan to wear me down.
    “Oh yeah?” I ask, crossing my legs to quash the sensation. “What’ve you been thinking about, exactly?” Please say kissing me. Please don’t say kissing me.
    “Well actually, I’ve been thinking about how you turned me down for a date,” he says, completely unabashed.
    I hope the bar’s dim lights are enough to cover the bright-red blush that’s seared itself to my face and chest. “Well, you never asked me on a date, technically.”
    Sam’s eyebrows shoot up and he gives me a wry smile. “I thought the date part was implied. Would it have made a difference if I’d used the word date , instead of experiment ?”
    “I guess we’ll never know,” I say, trying my best to look coy.
    “It’s a shame. I think we could’ve collaborated on some very exciting research.”
    If the fact that I’m grossly turned on by scientific lingo means I’m a bit of a nerd, I don’t care. Hand me a pocket protector and call me four-eyes.
    “For the sake of scientific research, let me ask you a question,” he says, moving closer to me. “Would you consider going out on a date with me this weekend?”
    Sam’s eyes stare directly into mine, his lips swept upward in a sexy smile. I’m having a real moment of panic here. I know this guy just saved me from getting felt up by Daryl Dawg , but Sam James represents everything I’ve sworn to stay away from. He rides a motorcycle, for Pete’s sake! I can’t allow my resolve to waiver. “I don’t think it’s such a good idea right now. I’m still on the rebound,” I say, cringing at my choice in words.
    “Maybe we could work on a rebound antidote, get you cured.”
    Sweet Jesus, I’d like to take that cure. Thankfully Luanne, bleary-eyed and out of breath, collapses against me before I can offer Sam a response.
    “Hey, y’all!” she yells, oblivious to the sexual tension hanging over the bar. “ Dawg said you were lookin ’ for me.” Luanne reaches for Sam’s beer and, without permission, takes a good long swig of the brew.
    “I just wanted to make sure you were alright,” Sam calls to her. “Ellie’s date was going for the douche-bag world record. I didn’t want you being exposed to that same shameless behavior.”
    Luanne takes another drink from Sam’s bottle and sways on the spot. “Nah, old Wyatt and