The Maverick's Summer Love. Christyne Butler
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Turning around, she walked across the room. “Okay, boys, it’s closing time. You all need to head out.”
The four cowboys did as she asked, two helping their one friend who was having trouble putting one foot in front of the other. She smiled her thanks as they walked away, and started to clear away their empties, but froze when she felt an arm snake around her waist.
“Hmm, why don’t I stick around so we can have some fun?” Heavy, beer-ladened words slurred in her ear as male fingers tightened on her hip.
Shelby fought against the tears that threatened by blinking hard. Could this night get any worse? She never let her guard down and got this close to customers, especially those who stayed until closing time.
“No, thanks.” She tried to angle her body away from him, but he practically had her pinned against the table. “I still need to clean up.”
“I’ll help ya.” His breath stank of cigarettes and his rough beard scraped against her cheek. “My buddies are already gone—”
“And you should join them.”
Suddenly, she was free from his mangled hold. Shelby hurried away, moving around to the other side of the table in time to watch Dean escort the sputtering cowboy toward the door.
“H-hey! I wasn’t go-going to do nothing!”
“I’m sure the lady is pleased to hear that in case you ever want to come back again.” Dean’s voice carried back across the bar as he strong-armed the man outside. “But it’s time for you to leave anyway.”
This time she couldn’t hold on. She’d reached her limit and when her legs gave way, Shelby sank into the closest chair.
“I need to get out of here.” Dropping her head, she covered her face with her hands, rocking back and forth repeating the words again and again. “I need to get out of here. I need to get out of here.”
“Any special place you want to go?”
She jerked upright. Dean had returned and knelt in front of her. He’d tossed his hat on the table, making it easy for her to see the sincerity in his gaze.
“Just name the spot, darling.” His mouth hitched upward in one corner, making his smile tentative and sweet at the same time. “Name it and I’ll take you there.”
Chapter Three
Incredible blue eyes stared back at Dean. Eyes the color of the crystal clear falls located in the mountains outside of town. They were also wide and unblinking, which worried him as much as the way he’d found her huddled in one of the simple wooden chairs, after he’d come back inside from making sure that the drunken cowboy left with his buddies.
“What are you doing here?” she whispered, her hands clenched tightly in her lap.
Her voice was as shaky as the rest of her. He found himself wanting to pull her into his arms, hold her close and tell her everything was going to be all right.
Which was probably a lie.
He had no idea what the heck was going on other than a drunken cowboy manhandling her and a booth of female customers that took childhood bullying to a new level.
“Offering to play chauffeur?” That got him a small smile, so he continued, “I came for a beer, remember?”
She nodded, still holding his gaze. “But you left.”
“No, I just stepped outside to get some fresh air. When I saw your last customers leave, minus one, I figured I should come back in and make sure you were okay.”
This time she closed her eyes and turned away. Two deep breaths didn’t seem to help. She was still shaking. When she captured her bottom lip with her teeth and bit down, he just about lost it. “Hey, can I get you anything? A glass of water maybe?”
She shook her head.
“Something stronger?” It felt wrong to ask her that. She looked so innocent, but his brother had assured him she was of age and they were in a bar after all. “I’m pretty sure you’ve got just about everything here.”
That got her attention. Eyes open, she looked at him again and he was glad not to see any tears in those blue depths. She drew in another breath, this one a bit more steady, and nodded.
“Okay.” Dean backed away, rising to his full height. “Pick your poison.”
“Hot chocolate.”
Hot—What? “Hot chocolate?” he repeated.
She nodded again. “And don’t spare the marshmallows. I need lots and lots of marshmallows.”
He looked around, spotting the swinging door that led to the kitchen. “I’m guessing I’ll find what I need in there?”
“No, the cabinet beneath the register. There’s one of those automated machines with the tiny cups. Just pop one in and press the button.”
Dean knew what she was talking about. They’d bought one of those gadgets for their father a few years ago for Christmas. The old man loved it. “And the marshmallows?”
“There should be a fairly new bag and a couple of mugs, too.”
Dean crossed the bar and found everything just where she said. An assortment of single cups featuring flavored coffees, teas and hot chocolate lined the top shelf and the mugs, both looking well-used, sat next to a bag of miniature marshmallows. One of the mugs was stamped with Property of SEAL Team One, Naval Amphibious Base Coronado while the other featured a group of cartoon princesses.
He grabbed the princess mug, made the hot chocolate and returned. By the time he got back to her, her fingers were relaxed when she reached for the mug.
“What made you choose this one?” she asked, still a bit shell-shocked. “Don’t think I know any Navy SEALs?”
He shrugged, having gone purely on instinct and handed her the spoon he’d brought with him.
“Well, I do.” She paused to blow on the contents of her mug and poked at the melting marshmallows on top. “Samuel Jackson Traven, retired SEAL. He’s Rosey’s special someone.”
Dean leaned against the nearby table. “I guess a spitfire like Rosey would need someone with the stamina of a Special Forces kind of guy to keep up with her.”
This time she smiled, still looking down at her mug before bringing it to her lips to take a sip. “You figured that out after only just meeting her?”
“I’m a pretty good judge of people.”
Shelby choked, but waved him off when he reached for her. “I’m—I’m fine. It’s just still too hot.”
Dean watched as she stirred her drink, then scooped the gooeyness on top into her mouth. A small sigh escaped when her lips closed over the spoon, a sigh that went straight to a part of him that had no business responding.