The Gamble (Colorado Mountain #1)(20)

“Why?”

“It just is.”

“You older than you look?”

“Probably.” Or at least I hoped so.

“Should I guess?”

I felt my body get stiff and I declared, “Absolutely not.”

He gave me a grin and got closer. “Give me a ballpark figure.”

“Older than Becca, younger than your mother,” I told him.

His hand not dangling from the table came up and touched my shoulder. I looked down to see my shirt had again slid off. I rearranged it so it covered my shoulder, his hand fell away and then I glared at him.

“That’s quite a range,” he commented and I shrugged then he said, “You look thirty,” well, that was good, “you act ninety.”

I stiffened then leaned toward him. “I don’t act ninety.”

“Honey, it was possible, I’d think you were born two centuries ago.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means you’re uptight.”

I leaned in closer and snapped, “I’m not uptight!”

He grinned again. “Totally uptight.”

“I’m not uptight,” I repeated.

“Don’t know what to make of you,” he said, his eyes moving down my torso to my lap and he finished with, “contradiction.”

“What does that mean?” I asked but I really shouldn’t have and I knew it.

His eyes came back to mine. “It means you look one way, you act another.”

I leaned in closer. “And what does that mean?”

He leaned in closer too and we were nearly nose to nose. “It means a woman who owns those jeans, those boots, that shirt, deep down, is not uptight.”

“That’s right, I’m not uptight,” I snapped and then jumped when two bottles of beer hit the table.

I looked up to see a waitress standing there, tray under her arm, white t-shirt, jeans, ash blonde hair in a ponytail, pretty mountain fresh face, no makeup.

“Hey Max,” she said.

“Hey Trudy,” Max replied.

“Hey,” she said to me then she smiled.

“Hi,” I replied, not smiling.

Her smile got bigger and without leaving menus she walked away.

I looked at the beer and Max, thankfully, moved away, grabbed both, put one in front of me and took a pull off his.

“Is that for me?” I asked and his eyes came to me around his beer bottle then he dropped his hand.

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t order that.”

“I did.”

He did? When?

I decided not to ask and informed him, “I don’t drink lager.”

“What?”

I dipped my head to the beer. “I said, I don’t drink lager.”

“What do you drink?”

“Ale, bitter, stout.”

“So, you’re sayin’ you don’t drink American beer, you drink English beer.”

“There are lagers that aren’t American. Heineken. Stella. Beck’s. In fact,” I went on informatively, “I think lager was invented by the Germans. In fact, I think beer, on the whole, was invented by the Germans.” I didn’t actually know this for a fact, I was just guessing.

“Jesus,” he muttered, dropping his head.

“What?”

He looked back at me. “Duchess, you can argue about anything.”

“No I can’t.”

“So, now you’re arguin’ about not arguing?”

I decided to be quiet.

Max twisted and shouted, “Trudy!”

Trudy turned from the table she was standing at, hands up, notepad in one, pencil in the other, table of tourists interrupted in mid-order and she shouted back, “What?”

“You got any ale?” Max asked and I shrunk into the booth.

“Ale?” Trudy asked back.

“Ale.”

“I think so, sure.”

“Get the Duchess here one, will you?” he called, dipping his head toward me.

Her eyes slid to me, she smiled and shouted, “Sure thing.”

At the same time I leaned forward and hissed, “Max!”

He turned back to me and asked, “What?”

“Don’t call me Duchess in front of Trudy.”

He grinned and replied, “All right, you tell me how old you are, I won’t call you Duchess in front of Trudy.”

I looked at the ceiling and asked, “Why? Why me, Lord? What did I do?”

My body went stiff and my chin jerked down when I felt Max’s fingers curl around the side of my neck and I saw that he’d gotten close. Not only did I see he’d gotten close, his face had grown soft and he looked amused and the combination was phenomenal. So phenomenal, I held my breath.

His eyes dropped to my mouth and my lungs started burning.

“Christ, you’re cute,” he muttered.

“Max!” I heard a man yell, Max’s head turned and I let out my breath.

Then Max muttered under his, “Fuck.”

I looked into the restaurant to see a tall man with a handsome, open, boyish face, light brown hair and a lanky frame headed our way. He was smiling.

At his side walked a tall woman, thin and utterly beautiful in a very cool way. Flawless skin. Long, ebony hair, perfectly straight and gleaming, parted severely and then pulled back just as severely in a ponytail at her nape. She also wore no makeup. She had on almost the same thing as Becca this morning except her poofy vest was less poofy and was a muted, sage green and her shirt wasn’t a thermal, it was long sleeved, ribbed and dusky blue. She and the man were holding bottles of beer, Coors Light to be precise.