Finding Their Balance (48 page)

He steadied her with a quick hand on her clean shoulder.

“Thanks.” Oh, hallelujah. She’d started thinking she’d never find her voice. “That’s, umm, I appreciate it.”

“Least I can do, miss.” He guided her in front of him past the line for the ladies’ room and stopped at the door.

“Yo, man, you gotta put your shirt on.” A beefy guy in a black shirt with the bar’s logo over his chest held out an arm. “Carrying it don’t count. You can’t be shirtless, not in here.”

She disagreed with strenuous, silent objections. Her gentleman deserved to go shirtless wherever he liked.

“You wanna run around half-naked, you gotta head down the street to the Lazy Eight.”

Making that man put his shirt back on would be a crime. Her skin heated at the slow slide of excitement between her legs. Thirty minutes of fantasizing and foreplay with David left her dry as a desert compared to three minutes of standing next to Shirtless Gentleman. The longer she lingered in his orbit, the harder her lungs worked to serve up oxygen.

Lust walloped her with embarrassing swiftness. She lacked the looks and flirty attitude to pull a guy without adding a vomit-soaked shell to the mix. Riding off into the sunset with Shirtless Gentleman glinted so far out of the picture the location didn’t exist on her map.

“Yeah, I get that.” Shirtless Gentleman raised a hand. “You can toss me out in a minute. Right now, this pretty girl’s got someone else’s puke on her clothes, and I’m going to make sure she’s safe while she’s changing.”

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—”