That Reckless Night. Kimberly Meter Van
spending a few nights in the elements. Hell, he’d been tempted to try his luck in his rental truck after taking one look at the couch. No telling what vermin had made their residence in its old springs.
He sidled up to the bar and signaled for the bartender.
“What’s your poison?” the man asked.
“Whatever’s on tap,” he answered just as his gaze found the leggy brunette regarding him with open interest. Talk about bold. He couldn’t say he wasn’t flattered but he was surprised to feel equal interest spark to life. “Would you be offended if I said you looked out of place in this bar?” he said, accepting his beer from the bartender.
“Depends on why you’re saying it,” she countered, swiveling around to give him a full measured stare, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Tread carefully. I was born in this town.”
He chuckled, enjoying the husky timbre of her voice. “And by making that statement, I just cemented your assumption that I’m not from around here, right?”
She laughed, her green eyes lighting with amusement. “Honey, I knew that before you opened your mouth but I won’t hold it against you.”
“Thanks. I’d hate to think I’ve already made a bad impression.”
At first glance, she had indeed appeared out of place in the rough bar with her long hair tucked into a ponytail and a warm woolen scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, but upon a closer look he realized that beyond that pretty face was a woman who could probably take care of herself. There was something hard as glacial ice about her even though her curves were soft. Her tight jeans left nothing to the imagination, something his own mind immediately jumped on with all kinds of scenarios, but it was her eyes that knocked him back for a second.
Green as summer moss with flecks of brown that reminded him of a Wyoming meadow in the spring, her eyes were framed by long, black lashes that dusted her cheekbones, and he had to remember not to stare. Hell, she was gorgeous.
“Careful—you keep staring like that I might get the wrong impression about you,” she teased.
“And what impression would that be?” He didn’t know how to play this game anymore and he’d never been particularly good at it in the first place. He was already out of his element—new place, new job—why not chat up the prettiest woman in the bar and see where it took him?
She responded with another throaty laugh and his groin tightened, warming in places he’d nearly forgotten about in the past year, but she switched gears, saying, “So, I’m guessing you’re not a fisherman.... What brings you to Homer of all places?”
Jeremiah hesitated, not quite sure how much he wanted to share about his personal life. He smiled, going for a variation of the truth. “A change in scenery,” he answered, taking a swig of his beer. “What about you? What’s kept you in Homer?”
Her smile faltered the tiniest bit but she recovered within a blink, returning to her previously bold assessment of him without being the least bit coy. “Are you married?” she asked. He lifted his left hand, showing her his ringless finger, and she scoffed. “That doesn’t mean anything. Half the men in this town don’t wear rings—that doesn’t mean someone isn’t waiting for them to come home at night.”
“No one is waiting for me,” he said. No one at all. He shook off the pull of sad memories and focused on the woman smiling at him. “And how about you? Beautiful woman in a small town? I find it hard to believe someone hasn’t laid claim to you already.”
“I don’t like to be tied down...unless I’m the one in charge of the rope.”
Another flush of arousal heated his groin at her suggestive answer and he nearly choked on his beer. He’d always found couples who claimed they’d felt an instant chemistry with one another to be exaggerating. How could you be instantly, insanely attracted to someone you’d only just met? Seemed the stuff of fairy tales and rom-com movies that he usually avoided, and yet, his blood was moving at a fine clip with just one look from this beautiful stranger. How did a woman like her get stuck in a fishing village like Homer without getting snagged by a local? He tipped his beer back, intrigued. “So, what’s your name?” he asked.
“Where are you from?” she countered.
“Wyoming.” He grinned. “Your turn. Name?”
Her smile deepened and she leaned forward far enough for him to get a nice whiff of her perfume. “Are names really necessary?” she asked. “Here’s the thing.... I think you’re pretty easy on the eyes and I’m ready to get out of here. Catch my drift?”
“Are you asking me to go home with you?”
“I am.” She swigged her beer like a woman who was used to playing poker with the guys and taking all their cash at the end of the night. There was something about her that pulsed like a live wire—dangerous and hot.
And he wanted to feel the burn. Desperately.
“No names. No personal details. Should I be worried?”
“You should be very worried,” she said with a mock-solemn nod that only served to make his heart rate triple. “Didn’t your mama ever warn you not to pick up strange women in bars?”
“She might’ve missed that one,” he said, sliding his tongue along his bottom lip, mimicking her own subconscious gesture. He knew a little about human nature. He’d taken a course in college on body language when he’d been considering a career in law enforcement. He hadn’t become a cop but he’d found the course had been beneficial nonetheless. And right now, she was throwing off major “come and get me” signals from the way she was angling her hips toward his and the tiny dart of her tongue along the seam of her lips, teasing him with the slow, wet slide, practically sending out a gilded invitation to throw her down on the dirty floor. It was hard to remember that he wasn’t a randy college kid but a grown man with responsibilities, especially when he was looking at ending a yearlong celibate streak.
“My place is just around the corner,” she said, reading his mind. “Interested?”
He wanted to shout hell yes but a sliver of reserve had him counter, “Not that I’m not interested but how about you? Didn’t your father ever warn you about taking off with strange men from bars? I could be a pervert or a serial killer.”
She slid from her barstool and graced him with a dazzling smile that was just a bit menacing as she said, “My daddy taught me to shoot a gun, gut a fish and break a kneecap if need be. Strange men in bars don’t scare me.” She slung her pack onto her back and headed for the door. She graced him with a single questioning look, then kept walking. The message was clear: come or stay, it doesn’t matter to me.
He grinned ruefully and tossed a few bucks on the scarred wooden bar. Either he was about to make the biggest mistake of his life or he was going to have a heart attack from the wildest night of sex ever imagined.
He hoped it was the latter.
At least he’d die happy.
And he didn’t have to worry about where he was going to spend the night.
Things were looking up already.
Perhaps this gig in Homer was going to work out just fine.
CHAPTER TWO
MIRANDA FELL BACK on the bed, winded and sated, sweat dampening her hairline as her chest rose and fell with the same harsh breaths as her temporary lover. She was thankful he wasn’t a chatterbox—she just wanted to enjoy the blissful nothing, the wonderful blankness of her mind that was the aftereffect of a damn good romp in the sack. And oh, yes, it’d been good. Better than good, in fact.
A satisfied sigh rattled from her chest as the sweat drying in the chill air caused goose bumps to pop along her skin. She swung her legs over the edge of the bed and padded silently through the darkened room to the restroom, where she slipped a robe over her nude