moved her back toward the table. “Food’s here.”
“Right.” She stepped away from him quickly, as if she’d realized just what had started to happen between them—or what could have happened in a few more minutes.
Paul dropped back into his chair, pulling his beer close again, along with the basket of fish and chips the waitress had dropped off. Across from him, Monica took another sip of her margarita, studying the people on the far side of the room as if she were cataloging them for future reference.
Maybe if they didn’t look at each other they could pretend it had just been a dance.
Brendan and Billy Joe were both digging into their burgers as if they hadn’t had a meal in several days, which was, of course, close to the truth.
Ronnie stared at him. Paul blinked. What had he done now? And then her lips slid into one of those miraculous grins of hers, her eyes sparkling as if they shared some kind of secret.
What the hell kind of secret did he share with Ronnie?
Beside him, Monica reached for her margarita again. “Good food.”
Ronnie glanced at Monica and grinned again, her eyebrows raising.
Well, crap. It looked like Ronnie had decided to do some matchmaking.
Monica couldn’t decide whether she should keep track of Ronnie’s alcohol consumption or not. On the one hand it sort of went against her stated goal of getting out of the taking-care-of-Ronnie business. On the other, she had the feeling Ronnie hadn’t really done a lot of drinking before.
She’d looked thoughtful as she’d finished her chocolate martini, like she was trying to put the whole experience into perspective. Her eyes also looked a little glazed, which was more worrisome.
Billy Joe was predictably trying to order her more martinis. Brendan was even more predictable, suggesting iced tea. Ronnie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want iced tea. This is a bar. You don’t drink iced tea in a bar.”
Monica took a deep breath and ignored all the voices telling her to butt out. “Ronnie, how about some white wine? Maybe some chardonnay?”
“Do you think that would go with my salad?” Ronnie gave the enormous bowl in front of her a doubtful look.
“Sure. Either that or beer—both of them would work.”
“I don’t like beer.” Ronnie’s forehead furrowed. “Is chardonnay all puckery?”
“Puckery?”
“You know, like sour? I don’t like sour stuff.”
“Try the white zinfandel, then,” Paul suggested. “It’ll be sweet.”
He didn’t look at Monica, but then he hadn’t so much as glanced at her since they’d come back to the table. Which, given what had seemed to happen while they were dancing, was probably a good thing. She still sensed a lingering tingle around her breasts, the remnant of a feeling she was pretty sure wasn’t a good idea. Paul Dewitt might not actually be one of Ronnie’s bachelors, but he was close enough to be off limits.
Ronnie looked as if she were deciding someone’s fate in the arena. “All right, then,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”
When she saw the size of the wine glass, Monica was slightly sorry she hadn’t gone along with the iced tea. Oh well, maybe it would keep Ronnie occupied for a while. She turned back to her own burger.
Paul still hadn’t looked at her. He also hadn’t said anything to her since they’d gotten back to the table. Maybe she’d imagined that sudden little burst of heat there at the end of the dance that had set her nerve endings dancing. Worse, maybe she’d felt something he hadn’t.
She blew out a quick breath, dragging a French fry through a small pool of ketchup. Probably best to ignore that heat even if it did exist. She didn’t need the added complication of an attraction to one of Ronnie’s bachelors, even if Paul wasn’t exactly in the same category as the others.
“This tastes good,” Ronnie chirped from the other side of the table as she put down her wine glass. She gave Paul another sunny smile. “Thank you for
“Right.” She stepped away from him quickly, as if she’d realized just what had started to happen between them—or what could have happened in a few more minutes.
Paul dropped back into his chair, pulling his beer close again, along with the basket of fish and chips the waitress had dropped off. Across from him, Monica took another sip of her margarita, studying the people on the far side of the room as if she were cataloging them for future reference.
Maybe if they didn’t look at each other they could pretend it had just been a dance.
Brendan and Billy Joe were both digging into their burgers as if they hadn’t had a meal in several days, which was, of course, close to the truth.
Ronnie stared at him. Paul blinked. What had he done now? And then her lips slid into one of those miraculous grins of hers, her eyes sparkling as if they shared some kind of secret.
What the hell kind of secret did he share with Ronnie?
Beside him, Monica reached for her margarita again. “Good food.”
Ronnie glanced at Monica and grinned again, her eyebrows raising.
Well, crap. It looked like Ronnie had decided to do some matchmaking.
Monica couldn’t decide whether she should keep track of Ronnie’s alcohol consumption or not. On the one hand it sort of went against her stated goal of getting out of the taking-care-of-Ronnie business. On the other, she had the feeling Ronnie hadn’t really done a lot of drinking before.
She’d looked thoughtful as she’d finished her chocolate martini, like she was trying to put the whole experience into perspective. Her eyes also looked a little glazed, which was more worrisome.
Billy Joe was predictably trying to order her more martinis. Brendan was even more predictable, suggesting iced tea. Ronnie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want iced tea. This is a bar. You don’t drink iced tea in a bar.”
Monica took a deep breath and ignored all the voices telling her to butt out. “Ronnie, how about some white wine? Maybe some chardonnay?”
“Do you think that would go with my salad?” Ronnie gave the enormous bowl in front of her a doubtful look.
“Sure. Either that or beer—both of them would work.”
“I don’t like beer.” Ronnie’s forehead furrowed. “Is chardonnay all puckery?”
“Puckery?”
“You know, like sour? I don’t like sour stuff.”
“Try the white zinfandel, then,” Paul suggested. “It’ll be sweet.”
He didn’t look at Monica, but then he hadn’t so much as glanced at her since they’d come back to the table. Which, given what had seemed to happen while they were dancing, was probably a good thing. She still sensed a lingering tingle around her breasts, the remnant of a feeling she was pretty sure wasn’t a good idea. Paul Dewitt might not actually be one of Ronnie’s bachelors, but he was close enough to be off limits.
Ronnie looked as if she were deciding someone’s fate in the arena. “All right, then,” she said finally. “I’ll do it.”
When she saw the size of the wine glass, Monica was slightly sorry she hadn’t gone along with the iced tea. Oh well, maybe it would keep Ronnie occupied for a while. She turned back to her own burger.
Paul still hadn’t looked at her. He also hadn’t said anything to her since they’d gotten back to the table. Maybe she’d imagined that sudden little burst of heat there at the end of the dance that had set her nerve endings dancing. Worse, maybe she’d felt something he hadn’t.
She blew out a quick breath, dragging a French fry through a small pool of ketchup. Probably best to ignore that heat even if it did exist. She didn’t need the added complication of an attraction to one of Ronnie’s bachelors, even if Paul wasn’t exactly in the same category as the others.
“This tastes good,” Ronnie chirped from the other side of the table as she put down her wine glass. She gave Paul another sunny smile. “Thank you for
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