somewhere between normal and crazy, I’d say. Mom and Dad are both hippies who somehow managed to raise two kids. Mom owns an art gallery, Dad is a freelance environmental scientist, and my brother, Oakley, is the black sheep of the family.” I lower my voice as though I’m sharing a secret. “He’s an accountant. And his wife, Madison, is a forensic accountant. They literally discuss math and spreadsheets over dinner.” I shudder, my eyes wide in fake horror.
He chuckles, sipping at his tea. “What about Hank? What’s the thread from you to him?”
Isn’t that a knotted tangle of a snag? But I answer anyway, hearing the pain in my voice but not trying to hide it. “He’s my mom’s dad’s brother. I hadn’t seen him for a while because there was some drama I was too young to really understand a few years back. But when my grandfather died and I got older, it just seemed like it was time. I didn’t want to miss out on something—on Unc—because of things that didn’t have anything to do with me.”
Bobby places his hand over mine comfortingly. His skin is warm, soft, but I can feel the rough calluses along his fingertip where it dances over my knuckles. “I know Hank is glad you’re here. I haven’t seen him smile this much in years.”
I smile, having guessed that Unc isn’t really the smiling sort, but I have seen a softer side coming out the last few days. He’s been less grumpy about letting me help, and he even thanked me for doing so much. And he did leave early for poker, something Doc said was a first. Unc might have been surprised at my unexpected visit, but I think he’s glad I’m here now, which means I’m doing exactly what I’m supposed to do.
“I’m glad you’re here too.”
Blunt and bold, and suddenly, his touch is full of heat, not comfort. His finger traces down the length of mine, then back up and down the next. It’s as though he’s memorizing my hand, inch by inch, and for such a relatively casual touch, it feels immensely intimate.
His eyes follow his finger, devouring my skin, and I watch as his jaw tightens. He is a monster in cowboy clothing, a Wrangler-wearing good old boy who is so far out of my league, it’s not even funny.
I should move my hand away. I know I should. But I’m frozen in place, stuck in his magnetic pull that feels so good, sending tingles from my fingertips to places much more needy.
He threads his fingers through mine, effectively holding my hand like we’re kids on a date across the bar. Slowly, his eyes trace higher, eventually meeting mine directly. I know my gray eyes are probably as wide and bright as his are hooded and dark.
His voice is low and rough. “How about that tour tonight, Willow? I know a great overlook to watch the sunrise. You’d be able to get some beautiful shots there.”
God, every single cell in my body is humming in tune . . . Yes.
Luckily, I have one single, solitary, lonely brain cell that hasn’t been completely lost in the waves of Bobby Tannen pheromones the rest of me is swimming in. That one cell is screaming that I know better than this. Sure, maybe I’m interesting in an out-of-towner-fresh-meat challenge sort of way. But let’s be real. While I’m only here for a few months at most, it’s going to be awkward as hell when I fall under Bobby’s sway only to be left in the dust when I’m not shiny and new anymore. And there will still be the shows, where I’ll have to watch him sing in that no-big-deal, casually sexy way and feign nonchalance as women throw themselves at him. I’ll have to pretend I’m the sort that’s cool with a fling when I’m not. I’m so not.
And that’s my answer right there.
I untangle my fingers from his, pulling back. “Bobby, thank you. Truly. But I’m not here for . . .” My tongue ties at the heat radiating off him in waves. Anger? Disappointment? Shock? Something heavier, maybe? “I’m here for Unc, that’s it. I’m sorry.”
What the hell am I apologizing for? I don’t know, but it seems like the thing to say.
He nods, reaches into his back pocket for his wallet, and sets down a twenty. All in complete silence. It takes maybe three seconds, but it feels like three lifetimes.