A Little Combustible Chemistry (Cactus Creek 0.5)(5)

That made her expression sober quickly. “My friend isn’t into games.” She spoke now in full protective-friend mode, staring him down. “Competitive? Ridiculously so. A player? No.”

Luke felt his frown dissolve into a smile, liking both that compelling character profile and oddly, the bartender as well, in all her strange and candid glory. “Unlike you, you mean.”

A pleased laugh bubbled out of her. “God, you’re perfect for her. As sharp as you are blunt.” She studied him for a second before coming to some sort of conclusion. “She’s lugging liquor boxes out from storage, back near the brewery pass-through. You should go help her.”

He squeezed her forearm in thanks and set out to do just that, hurrying through to the back, down an empty hallway. Noiselessly, he opened the storeroom doors and was greeted by the sound of his mystery woman’s voice…softly cursing up a string of very creative expletives.

Oh yeah. He grinned. This was going to be interesting.



*



“HOLY HEFEWEIZEN...” Incredulous, Dani yanked open a box of their mid-shelf tequila and pulled out two fresh bottles as she attempted to get her pulse rate in check. Though she was now a closed door away from the man who’d just about scorched her with a look mere minutes ago, she was still buzzing from the potent currents that had passed between them.

And fighting the impulse to go back out there for another hit.

Heck, it felt like every female cell in her body was ganging up on her, defiantly urging—demanding—she do the reckless for once and give in to each promised temptation that had been radiating from that man.

What in the world?

She’d seen the guy, what, three or four times in the last few weeks? They’d chatted for maybe a minute that time he’d come in to pick up a phoned-in lunch order. He was just a random guy, not even a local as far as she could tell.

She shook her head, thoroughly mystified. This wasn’t her. Dani Dobson did not get weak-kneed for a guy without getting to know him first, and most times, not even then. And she sure as hell had never felt like a cat in heat before tonight.

Taking a calming breath, she fanned her suddenly overheated skin. Clearly, she was just plain losing it, cracking finally under the mounting stress she’d been under lately. In a few weeks, her brother Derek would be home from his honeymoon and she still didn’t have a clue on how to buy out his half of the brewpub—the one thing making it impossible for him to pursue the dreams he’d patiently put on hold for her years ago.

The day she’d royally screwed up.

And for every day he didn’t complain, pressure, or do any less than give her support and praise for her successes—while never mentioning that one epic failure she never let herself live down—she hoarded another guilty reminder of how badly she was letting him down.

Yep. The stress from that impossible problem would be enough to make any girl go crazy...the crazy here of course being an admission that Xoey could possibly be right about this ‘dry spell’ of hers reaching parched proportions.

And that the man from the bar would be her absolute first pick to quench it.

A jolt of awareness charged her skin as she recalled every memorable thing about him, all now tattooed in her brain. Halfway down the fairly long list, she huffed out to herself, “Xoey’s losing it. That guy can’t possibly… I mean he was just so—” She shook her head, at a loss for words to match her blistering hot thoughts.

“I was so...what?” prodded a deep, gentle voice from behind her.

“You!” she gasped, spinning around. She gripped the rum bottle she’d just unloaded from its crate and poised it before her like a fencing sabre. “What are you doing back here?”

“Whoa, easy.” He shot both his hands up in the air, amusement curving his mouth into a lopsided grin. “No need to bottle-bash me. Your friend, the other bartender, sent me in to help you.”

“Of course she did,” Dani muttered in exasperation.

Mental note: Xoey was so fired.

When she pulled her weapon away from his face, the man efficiently slid next to her as if she hadn’t been poised for assault with deadly bottle, and began opening liquor cartons like he was being paid to. “Now what were you just saying about me?”

She balked. “How could I’ve been saying anything about you?! I don’t even know you.”

His pupils flared. But not in annoyance at her well-worded, bald-faced lie. But rather…in hunger.

She took a step back.

“Sorry.” He tore his eyes away from her and focused on the whiskey bottles he was lining up behind the older bottles in accordance with the labeled restocking instructions on each shelf. “The thoughts in my stream-of-consciousness just went to dangerous waters,” he added in that malt-rich voice of his. “I went from thinking ‘pants on fire’ to thinking about your pants.” His voice graveled, heated for a second as if teased by his own words. “Then, well, you can follow the breadcrumbs.”

Lordy, the man was lethal to the female population.

She did in fact follow those crumbs, right over to her backside. Unconsciously, she took a compulsive swipe at her jeans with her free hand—nope, no flames engulfing her butt—and felt the temperature in the small room spike dramatically.

Dammit, if he didn’t quit looking at her like that—all steamy eyes valiantly glued to her face rather than her fire snuffing efforts below… She shivered. Not wanting to even mentally voice the trouble that would ensue from that train of thought. It was bad enough that the faint scent of one of her dark ales was lingering on his lips in that sexier than sin sort of way, but candying it atop a gentlemanly sweet center to boot was just playing unfair.