Chapter 3

Charlie

Pamela’s car rattled up to the outside of the Clear Springs Bar off the main road. The beat up VW Beetle had served my aunt well for years, and she’d refused to get rid of it, despite the fact that it was two rattle-clicks away from collapse.

“We don’t have to do this,” I said and peered at the bar through the windshield. Its wooden walls and the twinkling lights that spelled out its name gave off a warm atmosphere, but I still wasn’t one hundred percent. “Really, Pammy, I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” Pamela dragged her purse over from the back seat and tugged it onto her lap. Her red hair, dyed, of course, fell in front of her face, and she huffed and tucked it behind a pixie-pointed ear. “You know, when I got you that job, I thought it would be all sunshine and rainbows for everyone. I had no idea Henrietta had turned into el mondo bitchero.”

“That’s not a saying.”

“Whatever,” she replied and dug a compact out of her purse. She clicked it open and grimaced. “Look at that. Older every day.” She tugged at the fine wrinkles around her mouth. “Be honest with me, what age am I giving off?”

“You look my age.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

I chuckled. “Thirty-three, then?”

“A liar, but I do love your style.” Pammy clicked her compact shut, then dumped it into the cavernous tote on her lap. “Listen, we’re here to blow off some steam. Just relax and enjoy the local wildlife.”

“All right, but I don’t think I should drink anything. If Henrietta finds out—”

My aunt—my mom’s best friend from high school—grasped my chin and wiggled my head from side-to-side. “Fuck Henrietta. I asked her to help you out, and that school’s caused you nothing but stress. Tonight, you’re going to have fun. You don’t have to get drunk, darling. I’m here to look out for you.”

But Pammy’s “looking out” had always involved more vodka and less sobriety.

“Come on, pumpkin,” she said and patted my cheek, her silvery eyes aglow. “It’s going to be fun.” She thunked open her door, slipped out into the evening air, and then thwacked it closed behind her.

I sat for a second longer, anxiety burning in my gut.

I’d had a small-town upbringing, not Summit Springs, but a much friendlier version in Ohio. My parents had been happy and so had I, and I’d been the apple of their eye. I’d never been into parties or men. This was way out of my comfort zone.

Today had been way out of my comfort zone. The handsome doctor, Houston, had stunned me.

The way he’d talked, the pure power that had radiated from him with every step, had blown my damn mind, and I’d spent the rest of my day caught between anger at what’d happened—at how he’d spoken to me—and lust. Actual lust.

I’d never lusted after anyone before.

Pamela rapped her knuckles on my window. “Christmas is coming.”

I sighed and opened the car door. “All right, all right, all right.”

“You sound like Matthew McConaughey when you do that,” Pammy said. “Has anyone ever told you?”

“Yes,” I replied and dusted off my less than modest, but still sweet, denim skirt. “You. Every time I do it.”

Pamela led us toward the entrance—a plate-glass door with an OPEN sign in red fluorescent lights. My cowboy boots crunched over the gravel and I swallowed, hard.

Don’t be a coward, Charlie. It’s just a bar. A social place. With normal, social people. This happened every time I went somewhere new. Anxiety would kick in and nerves fluttered like crazy in my belly, but, ultimately, they’d wane within a couple minutes of sitting down. I should’ve been accustomed to the reaction by now.

Pamela winked at me then pushed into the bar.

The inside was as cozy as the outside had seemed. The scent of wood smoke from a fireplace against the wall drifted through the small space. Booths lined the walls, and a pool table had been positioned next to the long polished bar, gleaming beneath muted down lights.

It was blessedly empty—that might’ve been because it was only just past eight, though—with a couple at the far end of the room and one other patron at the bar. Old-school rock trickled through the speakers affixed to the wall.

It reminded me of an old-timey tavern. I pictured walking up to the bartender—an old dude with tufty gray hair surrounding his bald crown—and asking for a room for the night.

“Pick your poison, gorgeous,” Pammy said.

“Whatever you’re having is fine.” I followed her to the bar and took a seat.

Pammy rat-tatted her knuckles on the bar. “Heya, Harold. How’s about you get us two Vodka Cranberries with extra cranberry?” she asked and winked at the graying dude.

“As the lady wishes,” he replied and set to fixing the drinks. “Who’s your friend? Wait, is she your sister?”

Pammy rolled her eyes. “You try far too hard, old man. You don’t really think I’ll fall for that one, do you?”

“Worth a short,” he grunted and brought a silver mixer.

“She’s my niece, kind of. My best friend’s gorgeous baby girl,” Pammy said and brushed my hair from my forehead. I inwardly cringed. “Although, she’s not a baby anymore, is she? She’s a gorgeous full-grown woman.”

I still didn’t feel full-grown. “Let’s ease up on the humiliation, Pammy.”

She patted my cheek again. “Oh, honey, you’ll always be your mommy’s precious gift to me.”

“You’re doing it on purpose, now,” I said.

“Never.” But the sparkle in her eyes told a different tale.

We took our drinks from the bartender and slurped on them. Elvis Presley’s “Jailhouse Rock” came on, and I let out a yelp. “I love this song!” I downed my drink and jived from side to side. Before I could think of ordering another, it was in front of me.

Already, the effects of the alcohol had mellowed whatever nerves I’d had. I rocked to the music, grinning like an idiot.

This was good. Better than being crapped on by Princess Henrietta and her liege ladies at Daisy Oaks. And certainly better than sweating it out in a doctor’s office because I just couldn’t stop thinking about his hands on my body.

Oh ho, don’t go there. Don’t even think about it.

I’d never had a man’s hands on my body. Never had one between my thighs. I licked my lips and focused on my drink instead of the tingling in my core. What would it be like to have that? To have an experience with a guy who wanted me for me? To let loose?

Pammy tapped my on the forearm. “Sweetheart, I’m going to the little girls’ room. I’ll be right back. Keep your peepers on my drink, ‘kay?”

“Sure,” I said.

She slipped off her barstool and marched off, her red locks catching the light. Pamela the Confident and the Brave. If not for her, I wouldn’t even be in Summit Springs. I loved my mom dearly, but Pammy had always been my role model.

She didn’t take shit from anybody, and she was carefree. Naturally, it was pretty difficult to be carefree after what’d happened over the course of the past two years.

Don’t think about that either.

“Is this seat taken?” The voice was rich, smooth as cream or chocolate or something else I’d love to eat. God, the vodka had gone straight to my brain.

“Sorry,” I said and turned. “My friend—” The words died on my lips.

It was him.

Doctor Pope. Houston. His steel-gray eyes glittered, set either side of that strong nose. He ran fingers through his wavy, walnut-colored hair and stared at me, a sexy smile tugging the corners of his lips upward.

“Heylo,” he said.

“Hey—oh, ha, that’s funny.” I gulped twice in a row, but it did nothing to bring moisture back into my mouth.

The doctor wore a pair of faded jeans that pulled taut around his muscular thighs. His short shirt sleeves wrinkled around his biceps. A tattoo crawled down his arm—images of animals, and a tribal design of what looked to be the letter C.

He cleared his throat, and I snapped my gaze back to his face. Oh god, I was staring. I was actually staring, and he saw me staring. I nudged my vodka aside—never drinking that again—and shook my head. “The seat’s taken. My friend’s just in the bathroom.”

“That one’s free,” he said and nodded to the seat on my other side.

I picked up Pammy’s tote bag and plopped it down next to me. “Nope. It’s saved.”

“For whom?”

“For this bag,” I replied.

“You’re angry about today.” He stepped closer, and I was overwhelmed by the scent of him, the pressure of his presence. My pulse thudded, then raced. “You shouldn’t be. It was said from a professional standpoint.”

Because that wasn’t embarrassing at all. Ugh, it shouldn’t have been, he was a doctor and I’d freaked out because of the effect he’d had on me.

“I can’t discuss what happened in the office today, it wouldn’t be professional, but –” He gave the smallest shake of his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Charlie.”

My knees knocked together. My name on his lips. “What?”

“Nothing,” he replied. “I was trying it on for size.” He bent and swept my hair back from my neck. “Charlie.” This time, directly into my ear.

I quivered.

The heat from his breath sent goosebumps racing down my spine. The reaction I’d had to meeting him this afternoon was dwarfed. It was nothing in comparison to this need.

The bar disappeared. It was this moment and nothing else.

“You’re shaking,” he said, softly. “For me. I haven’t even told you, yet.”

“Told me what?” I managed. Barely. Why was it so difficult to talk?

“About what happened to me today, when I saw you for the first time,” he whispered. “You made me crazy, Charlie. Just the sound of your voice made me hard. The way you walked, fuck. I wanted to bend you over my desk right there.”

I bit back a moan. What the hell is happening?

“I’d love to hear you moan my name,” he said, still not touching me, still just his breath on my ear. On my throat.

I closed my eyes and focused on nothing but that sound, that sensation, and the scent of his cologne—lemon and leather and something else, intangible.

“To moan it while my tongue teases your hot, sweet pussy.”

“D-do you always speak to women like this?” I asked, trying for resolve, but it was akin to fighting a tide—my own arousal, roaring toward me. A tsunami of need.

“No,” he said. “You bring this out in me. I wasn’t going to come over.”

I opened my eyes and turned my head to the side, just an inch, caught his gaze with mine. “Then why did you?”

His tan brow wrinkled, a flicker of uncertainty? Doubt? “You know why,” he replied. “You feel it, too.”

And I did. An inexorable tug behind my navel, like a chain connecting me to him. I wanted the distance between us to close. You have to stop. This isn’t—why would you? You’ve never done that with anyone else before. So, why him? You don’t even know him!

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said, and I blinked. “I want you to know that. I’m leaving tomorrow, and I probably won’t be back for years.”

My stomach sank. Not that it mattered. I didn’t know him! I shouldn’t care. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I want you to come back to my motel. Now.”

“Now? Me—but my friend. I—” I’m a virgin. It wasn’t as if I’d been saving it for anyone special. It’d just never happened. Sex and men had never been my priority. How could they have been, given the circumstances?

Houston’s fingers brushed a line down my cheek and touched my bottom lip.

I let out a sigh.

“Come with me. If you say no, I’ll walk away. You’ll probably never see me again.”

My inside twisted at that. Never?

“If you say yes…” His tone thickened. “If you say yes, Charlie, you’ll never forget me. You won’t want to.”

Is that what I want?

He let go of me and stepped back, towering once again. So impossibly huge, and muscular and dreamy. “What’s it going to be?”