the stranger said. “For that you need the cafés on the main drag.”
“Burger? Shake?”
The other guy’s gaze flicked over Ash, clearly skeptical that he was after something so prosaic. He stood his ground under the scrutiny. Until he’d wandered into an old-school restaurant in the village last May, he hadn’t been aware of the decided separation between the mountain visitors and the mountain natives. That night, he’d caught the raised eyebrows and the distrustful glances and realized he’d crossed a gulch without an invitation. He might have gotten the shit kicked out of him by a knot of young drunks, but he’d sent a drink to Tilda before he’d fully realized the danger.
Then she’d taken a shine to him. Once he’d slipped into a chair at the table with her and her girl pals, he’d been safe.
The man taking stock of him now might well have been one of the toughs who’d wanted to kick his ass from their hangout. “You had your eyes on Tilda,” the guy said now.
Ash shrugged. What was the point of denying it? “You know her?”
“Only since kindergarten.”
“I met her last May,” Ash said.
“Yeah? That was a rough time for her. Lost her mom in April.”
Hell. Ash frowned. She hadn’t told him that. She hadn’t told him much of anything about herself, except it was her twenty-first birthday. That had prompted him to order the first bottle of champagne. And then another, later, when they were alone.
He’d thought perhaps she considered him a birthday present to herself.
But maybe it had been something else altogether. A way to numb her pain?
Then he’d gone all smooth operator on her—ha—by passing out in bed so that she’d left him without a goodbye.
“Order the patty melt,” the stranger said, then touched his cap with two fingers in a goodbye salute.
Leaving Ash alone with his second thoughts.
After all, she’d not exactly thrown herself into his arms at Zan’s the other day. When he’d asked her out, she hadn’t said yes.
She’d told him she was running late and had to be on her way.
But that meant she hadn’t refused him, either.
It was enough to get him on the move again, and he slowly crossed the street. It gave him time to consider why he was so bent on taking that night they’d shared out of the serendipitous column.
One answer: he hadn’t felt right about the single shag aspect. His father always emphasized treating the opposite sex with the utmost respect, and buying a girl some birthday drinks, then sweet-talking her into a hotel room, and then basically going near-cadaver on her after the deed was done didn’t feel very honorable.
Another answer: because something told him any subsequent nights with her might just be stupendous.
It was that simple.
Or not. Because when he opened the diner’s door, Tilda stood in the frame, clearly on her way out. God, their timing sucked.
They both sidestepped to avoid a collision of their bodies—but they sidestepped in the same direction, their actions becoming a dance move.
That night, back in May, she’d taught him how to two-step.
In sixth grade his mother had sent him to Mr. Preston’s School of Manners. Honest to God, they called it that. Boys and girls had to put on fancy clothes and learn to address each other as if they were people from the era of Mad Men. Boys wore stiff shoes. The girls wore gloves.
There, he’d learned to fox-trot and waltz, keeping his body a precise number of inches from his partner—and his elbow ached just remembering the required angle necessary to keep that precise distance. The music had come out of an old-fashioned boom box and not once after that sixteen-week experience had he ever danced again. At the dances after football games in high school he’d lounged at the back of the gym with his buddies.
In college, on Friday nights he’d hung in his dorm room or apartment and got buzzed on beer like every other normal student.
So last May, when she’d pulled him onto the dance floor he’d been two left feet and very little rhythm.
But her laugh had distracted him—delighted him—and it hadn’t taken him long to get the hang of quick-quick, slow slow. They’d moved together counterclockwise around the dance floor and he’d not thought about his feet or the hokey country ballad or his odd outsider status.
He’d only thought about getting closer to Tilda.
The same urge overtook him now.
As he moved closer, she moved back—dancing again!—and the door swung shut behind him.
Ash stared into her beautiful face, her cheeks just the slightest bit pink, making her green eyes stand out all the more. Her lashes were long and curly and her mouth... Oh, God, he remembered how soft and sweet it was to kiss.
The memory muddled his good sense.
All his life he’d been taught to use his head by the man he esteemed above all others. Think things through, Ash! his father always warned. Consider first, talk second had been drummed into him from an early age.
Strategizing had become second nature. But when it came to Tilda, he wanted only to obey his instincts.
Be with me. The words were on the tip of his tongue. Be mine.
But he curled his fingers into fists and exhorted himself to take it slow and not overwhelm the girl. Go out with me. He’d start with that.
“Tilda—”
“I never expected to see you again,” she said in a rush, preempting him. “Especially not now—in winter. Guys like you...they’re summer guys.”
“Summer guys?”
She shrugged. “Temporary. Vacationers.”
“My parents had a place here they primarily used in the warmer months. But upon retiring, last spring they bought a new house, and they’ve moved here permanently. My mom loves the mountains.”
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