“Excuse me?” she asked, not sure what he meant. “Solve this? Solve what?”
“The need for a proper apology,” he stated. “There is only one acceptable way for you to properly apologize.”
She narrowed her gaze on him, certain now that despite his stern expression, she detected a sparkle in his eyes. “What would that be?”
“You can buy me a drink.”
Unbidden, a fizzle of excitement zipped through her limbs. “I see,” she said with one long nod, her best courtroom mask in place. “I can buy you a drink.” She fully intended to press onward, when a sudden shiver chased a path down her spine. It seemed her blood had thinned a bit in those barely detectable Texas winters.
Responding instantly, the man pulled open the door and waved her inside. “Why don’t we finish this conversation inside before you freeze to death?”
Holly found the idea of going inside and overheating with this man immensely appealing. But guilt stabbed at her. She wasn’t here for play. She was here for family; she was here to work. Yet . . . she had promised herself a little slack time today. It was, after all, Thanksgiving. And it was just a quick drink. Plus, she had time to kill before returning back home.
Decision made, Holly stepped forward, but she didn’t immediately go inside. She stopped directly in front of her newly discovered fantasy man and faced him, butterflies uncharacteristically fluttering in her stomach. Their gazes collided, his brow lifting in expectation and challenge. She’d known many a smooth-operating male in her courthouse days, faced them down both personally and professionally, and none of them had affected her the way locking gazes with this one did. She felt like melting butter warmed her insides.
Thankfully, she’d long ago learned how to adopt an easy facade of steady, cool composure. “I don’t buy drinks for strangers,” she informed him.
A slow, sensual smile tugged on his full, kissable lips. “Then I guess we should introduce ourselves.”
“Better yet,” she countered, casting him a not-so-innocent look, a look that she would never have dared before this night. She was really enjoying their little exchange. “You can buy me a drink.” She didn’t give him time to respond, darting inside the warm inviting Tavern, his deep laughter following her.
Smiling to herself, she tugged away her gloves and stuffed them in her coat pockets, surveying the dimly lit bar as she did. People were mingling here and there, none of whom she recognized, and she found that a relief.
Holly quite enjoyed the idea of this little game she’d entered into with a stranger, a secret flirtation. Sure, it had to end quickly—her mom and dad would miss her soon enough. But for now, she wanted to enjoy herself, to lose herself in the moment, and in the man responsible for that moment.
Holly calculated her best position in this game, passing the booths lining the wooden walls, and the tables in the open L-shaped seating area. Instead, she headed for the short side of the bar, where a four-foot Christmas tree adorned the edge of the long, wooden counter.
The jukebox kicked into play, the sound of Dean Martin’s voice lifting in the air with “Baby, it’s cold outside.” The playfully sexy song fit her mood exactly. How long had it been since she’d simply had fun? She’d gone from workaholic to hermit. Not exactly inspiration for good writing. Living created inspiration and sparked creativity. The tingling awareness sparked by a stranger that she felt right here, right now, was the most alive she’d felt in far too long.
Excitement fluttered through her as Holly stepped to the bar and claimed a bar stool. She hung her purse on the back of the stool and then started to shrug off her jacket. Suddenly, he was there, pulling it off her shoulders, his hands gliding down her arms in its wake.
Holly shivered again, and it had nothing to do with being cold. Her nipples pebbled, ached. Heat swirled deep in her belly. She could smell a spicy male scent, mingled with a hint of vanilla. She could feel the heat of his body near hers. He slipped her coat onto the coatrack at the edge of the bar, and then leaned his arm on the back of her chair as the bartender appeared.
“What can I get for you folks?”
Her fantasy man removed his coat, and she forced herself to remain attentive to the bartender.
“Irish coffee,” Holly ordered.
The sexy stranger eased to the side of her chair, his hands still strategically placed at the back.
“Make that two,” he said.
She rotated in her chair to face him. He leaned on the bar, that one strategic hand still on the back of her bar stool. She was trapped and loving every second of it.
“You don’t seem like an Irish coffee kind of guy,” she commented.
“Is that right?” he asked. “What kind of guy do I seem like?”
He had on a black T-shirt that clung to nicely defined pecs. She smiled. “A Bud Light man.”
Tilting his head, he studied her. “Guess I’m not as predictable as you thought.”
“Oh, I don’t think you’re predictable at all.” In fact, one of the things she enjoyed about this man thus far was how hard he was to read—well, beyond the primitive attraction simmering between them. She’d spent years learning to read the desire people hid beneath the surface. She’d made her living profiling people, learning to size up their inner desires. Rarely was anyone who they seemed on the surface. You had to ask questions, probe a little deeper to find the real person beneath.
The bartender set their drinks within reach, but Holly and her stranger simply stared at each other. God, she wanted this man. It was crazy. Insane. She was here to see her family. Her mom and dad were back at home probably wondering where she was now.
He lifted her hand into his, and she welcomed the touch. His hand was big, warm, strong.
“Cole,” he said, introducing himself.
“Holly,” she offered, feeling flushed all over. She’d thought she wanted to stay fully anonymous. And yet she liked knowing his name. There was a rich intimacy between them that couldn’t be created. It had to exist naturally. The kind that came so rarely, when it did, it was like fine wine you wanted to savor and make last.
Without breaking eye contact, he reached for a cup and tasted the coffee. “Not bad,” he said, a drop of that rich liquid clinging to his lips. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to kiss her.
She settled for another touch, covering his hand with hers, and sipped from the same mug. “Hmmm,” she agreed, as warm liquid slid down her throat, heating her already sizzling limbs further. “It is good.”
“You say that like you’ve never had Irish coffee before,” he commented.
“I haven’t,” she explained, flirtation in her voice. This playful banter sparked boldness in her. She cast him a sexy look. “Seems a good night to . . . explore new things.”
***
HE STARED DOWN AT HER, the hunter in him silently vowing to brand this woman with pleasure. Her hands were warm on top of his, her mouth lush and temptingly close. Cole Wiley hadn’t come here tonight looking for seduction, but he’d found it. And he’d be damned if he was walking away from it—from the she-devil of a seductress who could make a damned cup of coffee arousing.