tiny car and opened her door. When she swung her legs out his mouth went dry. She wasn’t wearing stockings. He had to tamp down the urge to stroke her from ankle to thigh to see if her skin felt as silky as it looked. He settled for taking her hand and pulling her from the low seat. Her grip was strong, but her palms were soft. The sight of her deep pink nails wrapped around his fingers set off internal alarm bells.
His ex-wife had been big on manicures, although she’d preferred fire-engine red on her talons. She used to do some pretty amazing things to him with her nails. ’Course, that had been before she’d discovered he wasn’t made of clay and that she couldn’t bend him into the man she’d wanted him to become. When she discovered he had a backbone, she’d packed up and left. Her leaving had caused one heck of a lot of problems back home—problems he’d continue wrestling evidently since somebody else still held the deed to his land.
Brooke smiled up at him, reminding him that her legs weren’t her only asset. She was long and lean, but curved in all the right places. Her eyes were as green as the stock pond on a hot summer day and just as deep. A man could fall in and not want to come out. Short blond hair cupped her chin and framed a face pretty enough to be on the cover of a magazine. Her skin was smooth and pale, as if she didn’t spend much time outdoors—another sign they had nothing in common.
It was probably the moonlight making her so beautiful—combined with the fact that he hadn’t had sex in longer than he could remember. He’d learned the hard way not to get involved with locals, and he rarely had the time or money to stray far from Crooked Creek.
He let go of Brooke’s hand and ran a finger under his collar when what he really needed to do was adjust his undershorts. His mind was taking detours and his body seemed happy to follow. Another minute of that trip and his jeans would cut off circulation to some vital parts.
“What a quaint place.” A soft smile curved Brooke’s lips.
He wondered if she was insulting the weathered building, but that didn’t sound like sarcasm coming from her lips. His mind shifted to far better ways of passing the time with a beautiful woman, ways that didn’t involve the width of a table or even a sliver of silk between them. Reining in his stampeding hormones took more effort than it should have.
She’d invited him to dinner. End of story. It was her birthday and she was lonely. He’d decided to accept her invitation because it meant delaying the inevitable of having to look his father and brother in the eye and tell them he’d failed them again. If he’d seen the flare of something more in Brooke’s eyes a time or two it didn’t mean he’d act on it. For crying out loud, he was thirty-eight not eighteen.
Tell that to his shorts.
She tipped her head back, studied the starry sky and inhaled deeply. “What a beautiful night.”
“Yep.” He turned toward the restaurant and tried to deny the desire to taste her soft mouth and feel her slender body beneath his. Having the width of the table between them looked better all the time. As long as he didn’t touch her again he’d be able to corral his urges. He hoped the smell of southern cooking would soon replace the smell of sweet woman in his nostrils.
An exiting couple opened the restaurant door before he and Brooke reached the porch. A blast of music hit him, and Caleb stopped so fast Brooke ran into him. For a split second her soft breasts pressed just below his shoulder blades and her hips nudged his butt. Electricity jolted through each of his cells as if he’d been hit with a cattle prod.
She frowned. “Pardon me. Is something wrong?”
He’d forgotten the restaurant had live bands on Thursday and Friday nights. The lights would be dimmed, and there’d be candles on the tables. The romantic atmosphere was the last thing he needed. Unlocking his jaw, he struggled to pull himself out of this whirlwind of need. “Band’s playing tonight. It’ll be loud. Maybe we’d better try someplace else.”
Excitement sparkled in her eyes. Damn. Next thing you know, she’d want to dance. “The band sounds wonderful.”
The hostess came forward and waved them in. Before he could convince Brooke to leave she’d requested a table for two, and the waitress had led them to a tiny square beside the dance floor.
Caleb’s stomach sank. The woman was already overloading his circuits and his common sense. Close body contact would fry his brain for sure. What he ought to do was go back to the seedy bar and get knee-walking drunk. He could sleep it off in his truck and go home tomorrow as planned.
He sure as hell didn’t need to spend an evening with a woman who had a five-year plan. He’d read that much in Brooke’s notebook before she’d closed it. His ex had made lists, too. He’d do best to remember that women-including the one tapping her toes across the table from him—always had an agenda.
He glanced at Brooke. She stared wistfully at the couples shuffling around the floor. Every muscle in his body tensed—in anticipation, no doubt—because he knew what she was going to say even before she opened her mouth.
“I wish I knew how to dance like that.”
“Anybody can two-step.” He bit his tongue, wishing the words back.
“I can’t. Would you teach me, Caleb?”
Ah hell. Now look what he’d gone and done, but it was her birthday. How could he refuse? If he had any luck at all the band would take a long break. “Maybe after dinner.”
Right after they gave their orders to the waitress the band left the stage. He hoped his luck would hold, that service would be fast and the band would be slow to return.
“So what do you do, Caleb?”
“Ranch.” She waited with an expectant look for him to elaborate. He was reluctant to do so—not because he didn’t love what he did, but because most women’s eyes glazed over when he started talking about ranch management.
“You?”
She ducked her head and looked at the checkered tablecloth. “I…write.”
“Write what? News stuff, travelogues, romances?”
“Self-help books.” She got a defensive expression on her face, almost as if she expected him to poke fun at her.
He nodded. “That explains it then.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Explains what?”
“All those meaty little phrases you throw out. So who’re you helping down here in McMullen county?”
“Myself.”
Curious as to what kinds of problems a beautiful woman like Brooke could have, he arched a brow and waited for her to continue.
She shifted in her seat and confessed, “I’m trying to define my personal success.”
There she went again, talking that self-help stuff. The words and delivery were stiff and proper, but there was a yearning in her eyes that told him she was anything but detached. It was kind of cute in a schoolteacherish way. Of course he’d never had any teachers who looked this good.
The waitress arrived with their dinners. Brooke waited for her to leave before asking, “I don’t suppose you’ve ever had to redefine your goals?”
“Can’t
