Wild Child by Molly O'Keefe Page A

scary cave she remembered. This was a nice place, a welcoming bar hiding behind foreboding clothes.
    Suddenly, she noticed how quiet it was, and she turnedto see a table of three men staring at her. Including Jackson Davies.
    His blond hair picked up the lights and gleamed like gold, his long body was stretched out, his legs crossed at the ankles, and his eyes glittered as they watched her.
    And she didn’t want to admit it—wanted to hate it, actually, because he was a rude, judgmental asshole—but she liked his eyes on her. She wanted to preen under that icy gaze, show him everything he was missing out on because he was an idiot.
    But she wasn’t that girl anymore. She was a woman, a writer, with a job to do.
    And he was not going to like that.
    She turned toward the bar, smiling.
    When Monica walked into the empty bar, the atmosphere changed. As if a storm were approaching, all the hair on Jackson’s arms stood up. He was always a little loose at poker night and tonight more so than usual, because no one else had come out for it. So it was just him and his friends—Brody was in town, on a brief layover between security jobs—and the mood was so easy, he’d had two pints of beer.
    Well , he corrected, glancing down at his half-empty glass, two and a half .
    And looking at Monica—wearing those tight black workout pants women seemed to wear all the time now, and a loose green shirt that slipped over one shoulder revealing her collarbone, the delicate curve of her neck—he was fully aware that he needed to apologize for his behavior yesterday, and also painfully, completely aware that before he’d blown it, she’d been flirting with him. And he’d been flirting back, and the yard had been ripe with the kind of sexual awareness he’d practically forgotten about.
    I want her. And before I acted like an idiot, she wanted me, too. Or at least was interested in wanting me .
    “Hello, boys,” she said, her voice like scotch, rough and smooth all at once.
    The rat at the end of her leash barked.
    “What the hell is that thing?” Jackson asked.
    “Reba’s my Seeing Eye dog,” Monica said. “Who runs this place?” she asked.
    “I do.” Sean stood as if he’d been called out by the principal.
    “You did all this?” She twirled her finger around the room.
    Sean glanced behind him at Jackson and Brody. “I.… ah … had help.”
    Damn right you did . Jackson and Brody shared a manly fist-bump.
    “Well, you did an incredible job.” Her smile, without a word of exaggeration, was like the sun coming out from behind clouds.
    “Thanks,” Sean said, standing a little straighter. “I …  we  … worked hard on it.” He hustled behind the bar, remembering his role as bartender. “You’re Monica Appleby, aren’t you?”
    “I am.” Again that smile, and Sean paused, mid-step. Jackson knew exactly what was happening to his old friend. The way his brain was struggling to catalog all her beauty in one go.
    Sean leaned over the bar toward Monica as if they were Cosmo-drinking girlfriends. “I loved your book.”
    “I’m so glad.”
    “He only read the sex parts,” Jackson said.
    “Don’t listen to him. I read it cover to cover. Though I might have reread the sex parts a couple of times.”
    “You’re only human.” She said it as if she were flirting, but he knew when Monica Appleby was flirting; he’d been the recipient of those sideways glances, the blush onher cheeks, the nervous dance of her fingers over her glass. This wasn’t that. This seemed … practiced. Careful. Brittle. And he realized, watching her, how skilled she was at letting people think they were getting close while in reality she was keeping them at arm’s length.
    Something prickly ran up his neck, an awareness.
    I do that, too .
    Or maybe he was just experiencing some beer wisdom. Or maybe he just wanted that connection he felt to her to mean something. To mean he was special.
    “So, can I get you something to