Olivia looked around, up over the heads of her patrons to the big, heavy, distressed-wood-panel doors. She took one look at the man who had just blown in from the windy outdoors, running a hand through his wet golden hair, his long wool jacket soaking wet, and her heart struck a drumbeat.
No. It couldn’t be.
His kind, intelligent eyes scanned the shiny wood carvings on the walls and the web-strewn lights overhead before settling on the long bar. They passed over the heads of her customers and snagged on her. That drumbeat inside her kicked into a cadence as he grinned wide, knowingly, his gaze warming on hers, and inclined his head.
Monica gasped. “You know that piece of man candy?”
Olivia opened her mouth to speak but nothing came out. So few times in her life had she been truly speechless. But seeing Gerald Leighton walk into her tavern on the most unlikely night of the year might have been the shock of her lifetime. Shaking her head, she gawped like a fish as she and Monica both watched him walk the rest of the way to the bar and take up one of the few empty stools on the far end.
“Liv?” Monica said, snapping her fingers to get Olivia’s attention. When Olivia blinked and focused on the waitress’s face, Monica narrowed her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Olivia said, glancing back at Gerald, who had eyes only for her. “Just...handle the bar for a bit. I’ll be right back.”
Monica looked from Olivia to Gerald and back. Then she shrugged. “All righty, then. I’d ask you to get me his name and number...but it seems he’s already taken.”
Olivia opened her mouth to deny it, then decided not to when Monica quickly went back to work. Clearing her throat, Olivia took off the apron at her waist and left the bar, rounding it to meet Gerald on the other side.
He smiled at her approach, those laugh lines digging in and charming her all over again. Three weeks. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him in three weeks. She’d counted on not laying eyes on him ever again. And here he was, having the same effect on her that he’d had the morning after in Vegas. As he stood up for her, she slowed her steps and licked her lips. “Gerald,” she said simply.
“Olivia,” he said with a nod and a widening grin. Those green eyes washed over her like a head-to-toe caress. “You can’t know how relieved I am to see you.”
“Yeah, about that.” Olivia cleared her throat and crossed her arms over her chest, shifting from one black-heeled boot to the other. “How did you find me exactly?”
“I had to call in a few favors,” Gerald admitted. “In the end, it was my publicist who was able to nail down your current address. You’re not an easy woman to find, Olivia Lewis. Particularly in the middle of a hurricane.”
She looked toward the glass doors leading onto the veranda. Nobody had dared to brave Mother Nature and sip their drinks outside this evening as they did most other nights at the tavern. Seeing the sturdy wooden chairs being whipped about by the wind and the soaking wet, weathered planks of the floor, she frowned at him. “You drove through this to get to me?”
“Yes,” Gerald confirmed. And there was that hint of sheepishness crawling into his eyes. He blinked and interest filled them, chasing away the momentary embarrassment as he jerked his thumb toward the bay. “Is it always like this?”
“Only occasionally, during the latter months of hurricane season. I’ve seen way worse,” Olivia told him. “Why?” When he looked at her in question, she added, “Why were you so desperate to track me down that you couldn’t wait for the storm to pass?”
Gerald cleared his throat and dropped his eyes to the floor. “Perhaps we’d both better have a drink.”
She stared at him a moment, the muscles tightening around the smile on his mouth. “Yep,” she agreed with an answering nod. “You might be right about that.”
* * *
OLIVIA STILL COULDN’T get over the fact that he was here. The man who, despite Olivia’s best efforts, she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about for three weeks. Particularly when she was in bed, alone. Or making coffee in the morning. She’d hardly been able to shower without thoughts of him rising with the steam in the bathroom.
Monica had brought their drinks to a table in the corner of the tavern, farthest away from the bustling bar and the two pool tables and televisions broadcasting sports and the weather radar. Gerald had taken off the wool jacket as well as the sports jacket he wore beneath it. The sleeves of his crisp, green, button-down shirt were rolled up over the muscles of his forearms.
Olivia watched those muscles flex as he gripped the pint of Sam Adams. Gerald brought it to his lips, tipped it back and made a sound of assent. “Bloody good draft.” Shooting a glance at her over the rim, he added, “Have you always been in the tavern business, Olivia?”
She pursed her lips. “You’re the one who had your publicist track me down. Shouldn’t you know that already? Stalkers usually do a background check, right?”
Gerald chuckled, his shoulders moving under the shirt. What kind of material could look so soft yet be able to fold on a knifepoint as his did at the collar? It looked pricey. Olivia wondered if it had cost as much as a man like Gerald could potentially cost her. “Details aside, love, I’m not stalking you,” he explained. “I actually had a very practical reason for tracking you down.”
“And that is...?” Olivia asked.
Gerald jerked his chin toward her untouched pint. “You should drink first.”
She gestured to the bar. “I’m a busy woman, Gerald. I don’t have much time.”
He leaned forward in his chair and braced his elbows on her table, those nice, solid shoulders settling over his bent arms. “What memories do you have of our time in Nevada?”
“Our one-night stand, you mean?” Olivia asked.
He grinned. “Precisely.”
She sighed, lifting a hand. “Oh, I don’t know. Not much, to be honest. Tequila has a debilitating effect on my ability to retain information.”
“As it does for all us mere mortals,” Gerald acknowledged with a thoughtful nod. He turned serious, almost grave. After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out and covered her hand with his free one. “I hope you don’t take this too hard, but it seems on that night in Las Vegas somewhere along the line we happened to find ourselves embedded in a wedding chapel.”
Her lips twitched in wry humor. “A wedding chapel. You’re kidding me, right?” When those grave green eyes neither smiled nor strayed from hers, she fumbled. “You’re...you’re not? Kidding?”
Gerald took a breath. “No. Apparently, Elvis presided over the ceremony. It’s a bit hazy to me, too. Two ladies by the names of Roxanna Honeycutt and Adrian Carlton—who, I’m assuming, were the friends you were in Vegas with—served as witnesses. By all accounts, the entire wedding party was inordinately pissed.”
“No,” Olivia said. She snatched her hand out from underneath his. Her heart plummeted down to her toes. She shook her head in automatic denial even as dread crawled over her. “You’re wrong. We didn’t. I didn’t.”
