An Accidental Gentleman (26 page)

Gripping his shirt, she ducked into the ladies’ room past the line of pissed-off, well-beyond-buzzed women. Shirtless Gentleman’s presence seemed to deflect any cursing about cutting the line.

“No, ma’am,” he rumbled over the din of music and chatter. “I don’t wax and you may not touch.”

Ma’am. Polite. Mannered.

She stuffed her shirt in the trash and grabbed a handful of paper towels.

Fit. Chivalrous.

The damp paper towels scraped her neck under her hardy scrubbing. At least the kid hadn’t destroyed her bra. The practical white soft-cup would serve.

Was Shirtless Gentleman military?

Tucking in the shirt didn’t give her the fitted look it had given him, but she managed to minimize her resemblance to a child swimming in her father’s clothes. Squinting hard almost made the outfit look intentional. A style choice to wear a black wide-neck tee with exposed white bra straps.

Yeah, almost.

She slipped into the hall, her skin electric. His bare chest greeted her from two feet away, his arms crossed and his feet planted in a wide, easy stance. A few hoots and drunken catcalls rose from the women waiting in line.

Shoving aside her embarrassment, she tipped her head back and met his eyes. “Thank you.”

His attention stayed centered on her. The unsmiling bulk of a man sported solid pecs and a penetrating stare.

“Again.” She fumbled for a classy conversation starter. “Your shirt’s really soft.”

Your shirt’s really soft. What the fuck.
Her brains had gone soft. Complete mush. Mashed potatoes held the edge in outthinking her.

His mouth twitched. “Must match your skin.”

“Sorry?” She’d heard him wrong. No way had he complimented her skin. Men didn’t say those things to her. “I didn’t catch that.”

He shook his head and dropped his arms. “Shirt looks better on you than it ever did on me, miss. Let me walk you back.”

Turning, he swept his hand behind her and landed with a light touch. Five points of pressure, a half circle of fingertips keeping in contact as they returned to the table. More than a few whistles followed them.

“It doesn’t bother you? Being”—she waved at the crowded tables—“stared at? Graded? Like you’re on display?”

Stupid question. Of course, the attention wouldn’t bother him. He had cool, calm confidence perfected. Anyone with his godlike body would want to show off.

“I got over any fear of public grading in basic training.”

Military. Nailed it.

Not yet, you haven’t.

Her face flamed.

“A’course, the opinions of a bunch of yappy drunks aren’t worth all that much, positive or not.” Shrugging, he tapped her back. “Being on display for the one woman who matters, well now, that’s a whole other thing. That’ll make a man nervous, sure enough, however cool he plays it.”

Great. He had a woman who mattered. Smooth, too, about sliding the revelation into the conversation. No ring, but an empty finger didn’t mean much these days.

“I think you’ve got cool down.” Months of going out with the girls from work had taught her how to categorize the bar crowd. The unholy chaos broke into three groups, all ring-free, with the singular difference whether they were ring-free but committed, ring-free and open or cheating, or ring-free and actually unattached. Limiting herself to the third group hadn’t done her any favors. “I hope your woman who matters sees through the facade and tells you what a great catch she’s made.”

He paused his tapping. “Oh, I don’t—”

“Woo, I didn’t know you were that kind of girl.” Sharilyn slapped her hand on the table. “Swapping clothes in a stall?” Her nosy, flamboyant attitude owed nothing to the drinks she’d downed. She came by her perky personality naturally. “What else did he get on you, Ellie?”

Ugh. She smiled through her irritation. Eleanora was bad enough, thanks to her mother’s obsession with family history. Every girl wanted to be named for the great-grandmother she’d never met.

Shortening her name to Ellie might as well transform her into a cow. Get along now, Bessie, Daisy, Ellie.

Sharilyn made her sound like a cow giving the milk away for free with a man she’d met ten minutes ago.

“I’m—we weren’t—”

* * * *

Christ. Her little friend produced as much bile as Lucas had, and the bitter sting seemed to hit her harder. The woman who’d laughed over a ruined shirt faced her sniping girlfriend with hunched shoulders, stammering a response somewhere roundabout her shoes.

“I’ll overlook that because you’re young and drunk, but you might wanna think on what you’re saying about your friend.” He’d dropped into his gruff tone, a favorite for his square-your-shit speech. A touch of gravel worked great for rattling the nerves.

The bile-producer dropped her mouth open, amazingly without the rim of a drink glass attached. The modest beauty wearing his shirt lifted her head.

“I’m not the sort of man to take a beautiful woman in a bar bathroom for an audience.” Not on the first date, at least, and not unless he’d be fulfilling a fantasy for her. “And she seems like a fine lady who deserves a better class of friends.”

“Did he just—who the hell are you to say what—”

Lordy, Miss Martini could screech. The woman beside him stood silent, watching him with narrowed eyes. Not angry, so far as he could tell. Assessing, like she’d spotted something new. Good. She might spare more than a thought for something new, if he got the chance to correct her misunderstanding about his relationship status.

“Shar, be chill.” The curvy blonde beside the screecher leaned forward.

He averted his eyes from her gaping shirt. His daddy’d taught him to be polite. Daddy’d also taught his sisters to have more respect for themselves than these girls possessed.

“Hey, rescue dude, your buddy took the spew monkey outside for some air or whatever. Said they’d wait for you out there.”

Fuck. He’d offered to drive tonight so Brian could get smashed with his brother.

“Right. Thanks for the message.” He turned to the woman in his shirt, torn between handing her down to her chair the way a gentleman ought to and asking if she’d care to go for a drive.

He should’ve bought the extended cab. Nothing romantic about sitting four across in the pickup with a boy sick as a dog hanging his head out the window.

Of course, he’d have the lovely lady beside him, her thigh pressed alongside his. Maybe the tickle of her honey brown hair on his shoulder. His cock twitched, eager as a teenager’s for a shot at action.

“I’ll walk you out,” she blurted. “In case the staff gives you any more trouble. About the shirt, I mean.”

Holy hell. He might have a better-than-nothing chance of getting her number yet. “My heroine. That’s right kind of you, miss.”

She linked her arm around his, sweet as you please, and tugged him away from the table.

“Yeah!” Stemware drained, martini girl slung the empty glass with loud, obnoxious, sloppy encouragement. “You’re halfway there, girl.”

At sixteen, he’d begged every night in his dreams for that type of rowdy girl. At thirty-six, he had other ideas.

“Take him out and ride him home, Ellie.” The girl’s shout followed them. “You deserve it!”

The one who mattered tightened her hand around his arm, and her steps quickened. She’d already been taking the better part of two to his one. Five-five, he estimated.

The top of her head came to his lips. The perfect height for tucking under his chin or dropping a kiss on. Or picking up and pressing to a wall to deliver a real kiss. Get those curvy legs wrapped around his hips.

He cleared his throat in a vain bid to distract his cock. “So your name’s Ellie?”

She scrunched her nose. Cute, but not a happy scrunch. “It’s Eleanora, actually.”

Hell, he had experience with disliking his name. Points in common melted ice faster than taking a chisel to the deep freeze.

“Eleanora.” Nodding, he held open the door. A classy name. Old-fashioned. No wonder she didn’t appreciate her friends’ butchery.

The July heat slapped his face. Same as the inside of the bar, with all its sweaty bodies, but with added humidity.

Eleanora released his arm.

Loathe to let her slip away so soon, he extended his hand.

“I’m Rob.” Leaning close, he kept her hand clasped in his. “My mama named me Robin, but don’t be letting that get around, all right? It’s another one of those things that’ll make a man nervous.”

Had as a boy, more like. Calling him Robin constituted grounds for schoolyard fights. Though he damn well wouldn’t share how the guys in basic had settled on Sherwood, or that Brian had joked later his nickname ought to be “Sure Wood” for the string of ladies he’d taken to bed.

“You don’t have anything to be nervous about.” Her smile held a trembling hint of shyness at the corners. “I know how to keep my lips sealed.”

He hoped not. It’d be a crying shame not to taste her sweetness. “Good to know.” He spotted Brian over her shoulder, leaning against the truck with a shit-eating grin. “Lucas will pay for the damage when he sobers up. You can text me the cost.”

“Oh—that’s—he doesn’t have to.”

He resisted the urge to drop his head and kiss away her frown.

“But, I should probably get your number anyway.” Blinking like she’d startled herself, she pulled her hand free and dug in her pocket. “So I can return your shirt.”

He didn’t give a damn about the lost shirt, but he rattled off his number when she produced her phone. A smidge skittish, a mite shy, and hanging with a crowd unsuited to her reserve. His Eleanora must’ve ended a long-term relationship not so long ago. She didn’t seem keen to hop on a rebound train.

Good. Neither was he. Take things slow, help her build up her dating confidence, and with any luck she’d see the potential in him he saw in her.

He walked her to her car, said a polite goodnight, and closed the door for her. Crossing the lot back to his truck, he waved off Brian’s laugh.

“Lost your shirt to the newest Maid Marian, eh, Sherwood?” Brian opened the passenger door and swung into the middle seat, leaving the window for a green-around-the-gills Lucas. “Hope you got a little something in return.”

Lucas groaned as he hoisted himself up. “Man, tell me I didn’t puke all over that MILF.”

Rob turned over the engine. Christ. Drunk or not, twenty-one-year-olds were blind stupid about women. Anyone past twenty-five probably registered ancient-to-prehistoric on the Lucas scale.

“Sorry, man, you did, and I didn’t.” The chance for something more, maybe, if she—

His phone sounded with a text alert. Yanking the digital leash from his back pocket, he jammed his arm against the seat.

The message originated from a caller unknown to his address book.

Just checking. I hear people give out fake numbers sometimes, and I’d hate to leave my shirtless gentleman without his shirt for long.

Well now. That was promising. Bolder in text than in person, was she?

He typed a quick response.

Brian craned his neck. “Still got nothing?”

Lousy snoop. He threw an elbow at Brian’s ribs and tucked his phone away. “Maybe a little something.”

USA Today Bestselling Author
M.Q. Barber
likes to get lost in thought. She writes things down so she can find herself again. Often found staring off into space or frantically scratching words on sticky notes, M.Q. lives with one very tolerant, easily amused husband and one very tolerant, easily amused puppy. She has a soft spot for romances that explore the inner workings of the heart and mind alongside all that steamy physical exertion. She loves memorable characters, witty banter, and heartfelt emotion in any genre. The former Midwestern gal is the author of the Neighborly Affection and Gentleman series as well as several other standalone romance novels. Pick a safeword, grab a partner or two, and jump in. Visit her on the web at mqbarber.com.