Page 537 of Summer Heat
Marissa giggled. “And you will, too.”
“It’ll be fun.” He straightened. “Just let me know the date and time and I’ll pick you up.”
* * *
With the quick switch of weather so famous in the mountains, the season changed suddenly. On Thursday, Tamara had to leave her coat in the car when she got to work, and it was warm enough that she wished she’d remembered to wear something cooler than a heavy sweater.
By lunchtime on Friday, a cold wind had blown through, bringing with it a thick muffling of threatening clouds. By Friday night, it was snowing. Thick, white flakes that promised an early, lucrative beginning to the ski season.
It meant that work Friday night was slow. Very few of the locals would chance the roads on such a night, and those who did had designated drivers. A handful of ski-hopefuls drank margaritas in the early part of the evening, but even they grew worried when the snow didn’t let up by nine, and left for their exclusive condos up the road.
Tamara took the chance to reorganize her area, cleaning out half-used bottles of sweet and sour, reordering cans of piña colada mix and kosher salt and new sponges. The few customers lived close and would walk home.
As she worked, humming along with the jukebox, Tamara congratulated herself for sticking to her resolve to stay away from Lance. It hadn’t been easy. Every time she heard his voice—that sexy, cheerful, hungry voice—over the phone, she wanted to beg him to come over to her house right that instant. She wanted to agree to anything he asked if he’d only promise to kiss her again, touch her, let her touch him.
But she resisted. She pleaded an overwhelming load of homework. She heard his disappointment with a finger of mingled sorrow and relief, and stuck to her guns. She lasted all week without giving in.
Sooner or later, he’d get the message.
She told herself she needed to put some distance between them before she revealed the truth about Cody. She needed to have some sense of control over herself and the wild attraction she felt toward him before she could take that chance and make herself so vulnerable again.
Someone dropped coins in the jukebox and Willie Nelson sang about a good woman who loved a man she didn’t understand. Tamara smiled ironically.
As if on cue, the front door burst open, allowing a swirl of cold wind and suicidal snowflakes into the room. And as if he were a creature of the wind, Lance Forrest walked in with it.
Every single one of the careful rationalizations Tamara had built up over the long week disappeared—melted like snowflakes under the warmth of his presence.
He was beautiful. There was just no other word to describe the shining presence of such a man. His sun-fingered hair shone with a fresh washing, and fell around the collar of his worn jean jacket in defiance of any attempts at styling. As he came in with Marissa, he threw a casual arm around her shoulders and made a joke, and the pose made him seem even taller and leaner. The days outside on the job in the bright mountain sunlight had given his face a deep tan that made his eyes nearly glow.
And he moved like some creature of the forest, negligently at ease in his own skin, utterly sure of his place in the world.
To her despair, Tamara’s hands trembled, and she had to wipe her palms against her jean-clad thighs. Why couldn’t she ever remember how he really looked? If she could remember exactly, it would be easier to keep herself guarded, to review that perfection over and over in her head until it lost its power.
But it was impossible to remember it all. The way he moved, the way he smiled, that shining aura he carried, like a saint from a Renaissance painting. Distractedly, she wiped the bar with a towel and wondered if the models for those painted saints had been men and women with Lance’s sex appeal.
They didn’t take a table. Of course not. Instead, they walked to the bar. Lance tossed a leg over a stool and leaned on the bar. “Hi,” he said. His bright blue eyes shone in unmistakable approval, and a strange, uncertain expression that pierced Tamara right through the heart.
“Hi,” she said, putting cocktail napkins down on the bar in front of both of them. “What can I get for you?”
Marissa set her purse on the bar. “Just a Coke for me.” She waved at someone across the room. “I’ll be right back.”
Both Tamara and Lance watched her head toward a table where a gigantic biker in black leather and chains sat by himself. He smiled happily when he saw Marissa coming, and jumped up to give her a bear hug.
Tamara chuckled. “Looks like you lost your date.”
“She’s not my date, exactly. She’s here to make you jealous.” He smiled. “Is it working?”
Tamara swallowed the truth, which was that it worked all too well. “If it’s me who is supposed to be jealous, I’m afraid not.”
The sudden flash of emotion in his face stung her a little. He lowered his eyes and plucked at the napkin. “Well, it was worth a try.”
Trying to ease that wounded expression, Tamara said lightly, “It would be foolish to get too attached to a ladies’ man like yourself, now, wouldn’t it?”
“I guess so.” He straightened. “Get me a beer, will you please?”
She gave him a bottle of beer and prepared Marissa’s soft drink, then carried it to the table where she sat. On her way back, she was conscious of Lance watching her, his gaze washing over her body with an almost palpable touch that lingered with warmth on her mouth and breasts and thighs. She tried to ignore it, but there was no ignoring his hand when he reached out and snagged her around the wrist before she could go back behind the bar.
“Lance,” she protested. “I’m working.”
