Page 65 of Stirring Attraction (Second Shot 2)
His short blond hair still looked as if he’d just run his hands through it. Stubble, the same color as his hair, covered his jaw. He’d forgotten to shave, or just didn’t give a damn. But his familiar blue eyes left her ready to pass out at his feet from lack of oxygen.
He stared at her, wariness radiating from those blue depths. Five years ago, he’d smiled at her and it had touched his eyes. Not now.
“Josie?” His brow knitted as if he’d had to search his memory for her name. His grip tightened on the door. Was he debating whether to slam it in her face and pretend his mind had been playing tricks on him?
“Hi, Noah.” She placed her right boot in the doorway, determined to follow him inside if he tried to shut her out.
“You’re back,” he said as if putting together the pieces of a puzzle. But still no hint of the warm, welcoming smile he’d worn with an easy-going grace five years ago.
“I guess you didn’t get the carrier pigeon,” she said, forcing a smile. Please let him remember. “But I need your help.”
NOAH STARED AT the dark-haired beauty. Her white T-shirt hugged her curves, and her cutoff jean shorts sent him on a trip down memory lane. And those boots . . .
The memory of Josephine Fairmore had followed him to hell and back. He’d tried to escape the feel of her full lips, the taste of her mouth, her body pressed up against his . . . and he’d failed. He’d carried every detail of that night in the barn with him to basic training. Right down to her cowgirl boots. He’d dreamed about Josie in a bikini, Josie on the mechanical bull, Josie damn near anywhere, while hiking through the Afghan desert. He’d spent years lying in makeshift barracks wanting and wishing for a chance to talk to her while staring into her large green eyes.
And yeah, who was he kidding? His gaze would head south and he’d let himself drink in the sight of her breasts.
He closed his eyes. He’d spent two long deployments hoping for an email, a letter—something from her. He’d wanted confirmation that she was all right. But she never wrote. Not once. She’d reduced him to begging for tidbits from Dominic. Not that her brother had volunteered much more than a She’s fine. Stay the hell away from her.
But she wasn’t fine.
He opened his eyes.
“You needed help and you sent a pigeon?” He released his grip on the door and rested his forearm against it. “You could have called.”
“I thought it would be better to apply for a job in person,” she said, her voice low and so damn sultry that his dick was on the verge of responding.
Not going to happen.
There were a helluva lot of things beyond his control. His dad’s health. His grandmother’s heart failure while he was stationed in Bumblefuck, Afghanistan, fighting two enemies—and one of them should have been on his side. And the fact that the only time he felt calm, in control, and something bordering on happiness, was at the damn shooting range.
Still, he could control his own dick.
But why the hell should I?
He let his gaze drift to her chest, down her hips, and down her slim legs. He’d wanted her for five long years and here she was on his doorstep. What was stopping him from pulling her close and starting where they’d left off five years ago? He wasn’t the good guy worried about her big brother’s reactions or her reputation. Not anymore. Nothing he’d done in the past five years had left him feeling heroic. So why start now?
She crossed her arms in front of her chest. And while he appreciated the way her breasts lifted, he raised his gaze to meet hers.
“I’m not hiring,” he lied. Big Buck’s needed a waitress or two, another bartender, and a dishwasher to keep up with the crowds pouring in from the nearby university, desperate to bump and grind to house music. But if she worked here, well hell, then he’d have another reason he shouldn’t touch her. He had a rule about messing around with his female employees. It was bad business. He’d worked too hard to turn Big Buck’s into something to fool around with a waitress or a bartender.
She raised an eyebrow and nodded to the Help Wanted sign he’d put up in the window. “Someone put that
up without asking you?”
Shit.
“I recently filled the position,” he said, searching for an excuse that didn’t touch on the truth.
“I’m too late.” She shook her head. “Perfect. I guess I should have gotten up the nerve to come home a few days ago.”
He glanced over her shoulder and saw a red Mini parked beside his truck. It looked like a toy next to his F-250. And apart from the driver’s side, every cubic inch appeared stuffed with bags.
“I thought you liked Portland. Greg from the station said you haven’t been back here in a few years,” he said, knowing he should close the door and end the conversation. If he let her in, if he handed her an application followed by a Big Buck’s apron, he couldn’t touch her. That wasn’t much different from the past five years, or the ones before the going away party, but she hadn’t spent the past decade or so within arm’s reach.
“It didn’t work out,” she said.
“They don’t have jobs up there for someone with a fancy degree? I bet you could do a lot better than serving drinks.”
