Only in My Dreams (2 page)

“A lemon drop, thanks.”

“Cute top—that necklace goes great with it,” she said, before taking off to make Sara's drink.

Sara looked down and smiled. So far, so good. Now if only a guy paid her the same attention.

“Here you go.” The bartender delivered her lemon drop. “You want to keep an open tab?”

“Sure.” Sara slid her debit card across the bar. After sipping her drink—and nibbling at the sugared rim, which was often the best part—Sara turned her barstool toward the dance floor. She doubted she'd recognize anyone, but stranger things could happen.

The music had her foot tapping against the stool while her gaze drifted from the dance floor to the tables she could see. A trio of attractive men sharing a pitcher of beer drew her notice. No way could she invade that knot of testosterone. She was about to continue her scan when recognition sparked. Though she hadn't seen him in years, she knew one of those guys. And holy wow, Dylan Westcott was way hotter than she remembered from high school. Which was saying a lot since he'd been unbelievably good-looking back then.

Dylan laughed at something the guy next to him said. Dimples accentuated his lean cheekbones as his face settled into an easy, sexy grin. His dark brown hair was thick, but cropped short on the sides.

His gaze connected with hers and Sara nearly spilled her drink. Caught staring, she abruptly turned back to the bar. Maybe this had been a terrible idea. She didn't know the first thing about how to be alluring or how to tempt a gorgeous guy like Dylan-freaking-Westcott.

Finish your drink and go home
, she told herself.

“Hi.”

The greeting came from behind and to her left. Afraid she knew who it was, she slowly turned her head. Yep. Disaster. He'd come over to talk to her.

His brows pitched low over his amazing gray-green eyes as he scrutinized her. “Sara Archer?”

Butterflies crowded her stomach and a slight euphoria permeated her brain. “Yeah. Hi, Dylan.”

“You remember me.” He sounded surprised.

Sara smiled. “Well, you remembered me, too.”

He cracked a smile in return.
And she'd been worried about a downtown club being out of her league?
“Hard to forget a television star.”

“Ha. Right.” She and her siblings—the “famous” Archer Sextuplets plus their younger brother, Hayden—had starred in their own reality series during their tween years, well before Derek had come to live with them. “That was a long time ago. I can't believe you'd recognize me from that.”

“We went to high school together, too.”

“You were three years ahead of me. You didn't even know I existed.”

Unlike Sara, who had been ultra-aware of him. He'd been quarterback and captain of the football team and senior class president. He'd also been spoken for and had later married his high school girlfriend, though Sara had heard they were now divorced.

“I'm hurt. You make me sound like a self-involved jerk.” He smiled self-deprecatingly and lowered his voice. “I'm pretty sure I was.” He gestured to the bartender and pointed at his nearly empty pint glass. “One drawback to Sidewinders—no Archer beer.”

“True.” Her family owned nine brewpubs, which sold their beers exclusively. “It's how we draw you in.”

He glanced at her, but his gaze lingered just long enough for Sara to wonder if he was interested. A shiver raced down her spine. “How long has it been? You look fantastic, by the way.”

Mission accomplished. She quashed the giddy feeling that threatened to make her giggle like a college girl. “Thanks.”

She took a sustaining drink of her lemon drop, sneaking a look at his rugged jaw and lips that could curve into that bone-melting thousand-watt smile. If she was going to flirt with Dylan Westcott, she needed all the help she could get. “This is incredibly cliché, but do you come here regularly? I thought you lived in Ribbon Ridge.” Which was a good forty-five minutes away.

“I do live there, but some friends invited me to meet them here tonight. How about you? Are you still in Ribbon Ridge?” His mouth cracked into that self-deprecating smile again. “Sorry, it's not a huge town. I should probably know that.”

“It's big enough to miss those kinds of details. But no, I left a few years ago. I live near here.”

He glanced around. “And are you here alone?”

She hated that she felt self-conscious. “Yep. Just needed to get out for a bit.”

His gaze dipped down briefly as if he were registering that she wasn't exactly dressed for a quick jaunt to the local bar.

She rushed to add, “I came to dance.”

“Awesome, let's hit it.” He slid off his stool and held out his hand for her.

Her heart pounded in her chest. When she went out—which was rarely—no one ever asked her to dance. It was why she preferred line dancing, because she didn't need a partner.

Craig's voice sounded in her head.
If the opportunity presents itself, you should go for it
.

Just then the music changed to something a little bit slower. Couples paired up on the dance floor. It was precisely the kind of song that usually drove her back to the bar or, even more likely, home. But here was a man—a sexy,
interested
man—asking her to dance.

Sara took his hand, and when she slid her fingers between his, a burst of heat snaked its way up her arm and settled into her chest. The look he gave her as they walked only intensified the feeling.

When they got to the dance floor, he swept her into his arms. He was more than a good head taller than her, probably six-one, with broad, muscled shoulders draped with a sexy black button-down shirt, and lean hips encased in worn jeans that fit like they'd been tailored for him.

She loved the press of his hand around her waist and the touch of his palm against hers. She closed her eyes briefly and let herself be carried away. He smelled fresh and masculine—not from cologne, but from whatever soap he'd used. Rosemary and pine. Northwestern and scrumptious.

Too soon, the music picked up again, and she forced herself to move away from him. They broke into lines, and it became evident that while he was a good dancer, he didn't know the steps. He tried really hard to keep up, but at the end of the song, Sara took pity on him. “Should we go back to our drinks?”

He grinned at her as relief flooded his gaze. “Yes, save me. Please.”

She wouldn't tell him that her suggestion had also been selfishly motivated. If she danced too long her senses would wind up, and she wanted to stay in control tonight. She didn't want to have to bail to pull herself together. Not when the night was going so well.

A warm glow spread from his arm, which he'd situated at the small of her back as he guided her toward the bar. “How about we move to a table?” he asked.

The flutters in Sara's belly picked up speed. “Sure. Over there?” She pointed to a table in the corner. It was cozy. Dim.

“Perfect.” The way he said the word and the way his gaze caressed her made Sara wonder if he was talking about the table. But no, guys didn't look at her like that or flirt with her so outrageously.

She made her way to the table and settled herself on the bench against the wall. A couple of minutes later, he came toward her, carrying her unfinished lemon drop and his beer. He handed her the drink and clinked their glasses as he slid onto the bench beside her. “To old friends.”

She drank, peering at him over the edge of her glass. Her stomach fluttered as she watched him. This was the closest she'd been to a guy in a long time.

He set his nearly empty pint glass on the table and turned his head toward her. “Okay, Vegas Rules.”

She blinked at him. “What?”

“You know, ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.' You can't tell anyone how badly I suck at line dancing.”

She laughed. “Deal.”

He looked relieved, but only briefly. Then he frowned. “Uh-oh. Now you have a secret you can use against me. It's only fair if you give me one, too.”

“A secret?” She instantly thought of the heat pooling in her belly because of his proximity and decided sharing that would be
too
revealing.

“Make it something good.”

She arched a brow at him. “Really? Not being a very good line dancer is hardly a ‘good' secret. I think that gets you something along the lines of my being a bit clumsy. If we'd kept dancing, you would've seen it.”

He shook his head. “I don't believe it. You're a great dancer. You're making that up.”

“I
am
a great dancer.” She shot him a
so there
look. “But I'm still clumsy. It's my—never mind.” She'd been about to say it was her sensory processing disorder, but why bring that up? Breaking free from her family meant she didn't have to be the girl with SPD. She wasn't embarrassed or ashamed, but she'd wanted to keep tonight light.

“Hmmm, you're very intriguing, Miss Archer.”

She turned her head and saw that his gaze held an underlying glint. Curiosity. Interest. Confidence flowed into her from that look. She could do this—flirt, attract,
seduce
. “So far these secrets are lame. You owe me another one. And make it good.” She narrowed her eyes in what she hoped was a coquettish way.

He chuckled. “I do? Let's see.” He tapped his finger against his lower lip, drawing her attention to his mouth. Which in turn forced her thoughts to what it would be like to kiss him. “You should run screaming in the other direction. I'm bad news.”

The way he lowered his voice to deliver his warning made her toes curl. “Why? You can't drop a bomb like that and not explain it.” She finished her lemon drop.

He eyed her empty glass. “Another round?”

She hadn't planned on more than one drink tonight, but she could handle one more. Besides, the evening was becoming far too interesting to bail now. “Sure. But talk.”

He signaled for the server who came and took their order. Exhaling, he leaned back against the wall. “You seem like a nice person. I'm . . . just a fun-loving guy looking for a good time now and again.” His gaze was guarded, but seemed to smolder anyway.

“So you pick up girls in bars a lot?”

He smiled enigmatically, his eyes never leaving hers, as he picked up his glass. “Occasionally.”

She ran her fingertips along the smooth stem of her glass. “Is that what you're doing tonight?”

“I hadn't decided until now. But I guess it's ultimately up to you.” The look he gave her as he set his empty glass on the table nearly ignited her into a ball of flames. No guy had
ever
looked at her like that. Like she was something good enough to eat. She shifted in her seat and wished she had the guts to do what Craig had recommended—Dylan had all but suggested it. So why not? Why couldn't she have a hot one-night stand with Dylan Westcott? She knew him—enough anyway that he wasn't some random stranger. Honestly, it was the best-case scenario. And he definitely seemed interested . . .

The server brought their drinks. Sara took a long sip to bolster her courage. She cocked her head at him and gave him a questioning look. “Vegas Rules?”

“Of course.” He took a pull on his fresh beer and set it back down.

“I had a massive crush on you in high school.” She cringed, waiting to see if she'd totally blown the mutual attraction they seemed to have going.

His lips spread in the most captivating grin. “Really? I had no idea.”

The dormant sixteen-year-old inside her silently squealed. “You had a girlfriend. A pretty serious one too—you got married later, right?”

He gave a short, dark laugh. “Yeah, and you can see how well that turned out.”

Sara was sorry she'd brought it up and sought to lighten the mood again. “I'm sure it was all her fault.”

“Absolutely.” He shook his head then leaned toward her, bending close to her ear so his breath tickled her flesh. “Not true. I told you I'm bad news.”

A shiver, both from his words and his nearness, shot through her. Had he cheated on his ex? He'd intimated he was a player. Hesitation dampened her excitement, and that pissed her off. She was here for a good time, damn it. She slid out from behind the table. “Thanks for the disclaimer. Come on, Bad News, time to learn some line dancing.”

He got to his feet. “Be gentle.”

She speared him with a look she'd never dared before—it was hopefully both seductive and sassy. “I don't think that's what you really want.”

His eyes narrowed, and sparks seemed to ignite between them. “You
are
dangerous. Perhaps you're the one who needs a disclaimer.”

A part of her knew it was all playful banter and might go nowhere, but she'd relish the thrill of his attention for as long as she had it.

Chapter Two

A
FTER HUMILIATING HIMSELF
for a good half hour on the dance floor, Dylan guided the petite and lovely Sara Archer back to their table. What the hell was he
doing
? Sara was a nice girl with several brothers. Large brothers who would probably kick his ass if he picked her up in a bar. There was a reason he conducted his extracurricular activities away from Ribbon Ridge—he preferred no-strings-attached hook-ups. Sara Archer was about as far from that as he could get. Yet here he was, flirting with her. There was no harm in flirting, was there?

He hadn't known who she was when he'd approached her. He'd seen a cute blonde who'd been alone, and he'd made his move. When he'd gotten up close, recognition had socked him in the gut. Though he'd recovered quickly, he'd been too entranced to make some excuse and retreat. Which had brought him to his present conundrum: flirting with someone he knew as opposed to the much safer—and much preferred—woman he didn't know.

He slid onto the bench seat beside Sara and took a long drink of his beer, thirsty after their dance floor exertions. She studied him over the top of her lemon drop as she sipped. Her eyes were blue with just a hint of gray, and when they did that slight narrowing-thing, she exuded a saucy, sexy air that jolted him with electricity. Like they were doing right now.