All the Right Moves(25)

“Where are you from?”

“I was born in Maryland, but I lived all over the place. We moved about every two or three years.”

“An East Coaster, huh?”

“Not so much. We left Maryland when I was three.”

“What about your parents? It counts if they’re from the East.”

“My mom’s from Boston. The colonel—” John twisted the cap off his beer and took a drink. “My father grew up like I did, living on the West Coast, the Midwest, Europe.”

“You call him Colonel?”

“Sometimes.”

She stayed quiet, rearranging everything to give herself work space. She turned on the electric griddle and put a container of real maple syrup in the microwave. Pancakes were an important food group, and they deserved nothing but the best.

“What about you?” he asked. “Where are you from?”

“Tempe, Arizona, but I grew up like you. We lived everywhere. Not Europe. Just in the States. I’ve lived here in Vegas the longest. It’s been four years.”

“Your folks live here, too?”

“Part-time. They’re in Oregon right now. But no fair, I wasn’t finished with you yet.”

“Ask away.”

“What about the first John? He would be your grandfather, right?” She measured out the powdered mix, her unsteady hand not exactly precise. “Was he a colonel, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“What branch?”

“Air force.” She bent to get the big blue mixing bowl. Her butt bumped his fly.

“Oh.” She stiffened. “I didn’t know you were there.” Her heel came down on his shoe. “Sorry, did I—?”

“No.” He put a hand on her bare waist to steady her. Or something. All she felt was the heat of him, his closeness. He was a stealth mover, closing the distance between them without a sound. The contact between them had only lasted a few seconds, and she doubted that the bump behind his fly was anything but a trick of his trousers.

There was one way of finding out. She turned in a tight circle, his hand staying in contact until it rested on the other side of her waist.

“You know what?” she asked.

He looked hungry, and she didn’t think it was for pancakes. “Nope.”

Grabbing the front of his shirt, she tugged him down, and he willingly submitted. “You’re pretty darn sneaky.”

“Yeah, well, you have your moments, too. I imagined this evening going a whole different way.”

He was close enough that his warm, slightly beer-tinged breath caressed her lips. “Oh, yeah? And what did you picture happening?”

“A dinner with waiters and candles. Getting to know you. Bringing you back here reasonably close to the agreed-upon time.”

“That’s it?”

He nodded, and his nose brushed hers.

“That’s not so different.”

“I never anticipated seeing your tattoo.”

“Oh, that one’s nothing.”

“There are more?” he asked, his mouth curving into a smile.

Returning his grin, she let go of his shirt, cupped the back of his neck and pulled him the rest of the way down. Her breasts pressed to his chest as she leaned into him. He moved his hands to her back, stroking his palms under her top, trailing his fingers along her spine as if he’d be able to find her ink by touch.

She kept the kiss light, pulling back when she still had her wits about her.

He chased after her, but gave it up as his focus seemed to clear. “Damn. You aren’t making this easier, you know.”

“What easier?”

His hands slipped out from under her top and he distanced himself from her. “I’m starving. How about those pancakes?”

“Right. Dinner. Have a seat, and I’ll make you a couple. How does a cheese omelet sound?”

He made his way to the opposite side of the counter. “Great. Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You can continue telling me about yourself.”

“All right, as long as I get to ask you questions, too.”

“Absolutely. Now, what about your mom?” Cassie found it a lot easier to pay attention when she concentrated on the cooking. None of it took very long. After being a bartender so long, she was great at multitasking.

When she did take the occasional peeks at John, his gaze was squarely on her. Mostly her face, but sometimes lower. She was used to being looked at, but his attention was different from that of the guys at the bar.