It Must Have Been the Mistletoe... by Kate Hoffmann Page B

her gear in the back of his SUV, then openedthe passenger door for her. Looking annoyingly shocked at this display of courtesy, she settled quite primly into the seat.
    Layla was petite and curvy with a body more Gibson Girl than Vogue . She was small and lush, more soft than athletic and in the possession of an ass that didn’t require Apple Bottoms jeans to make a guy want to take a little bite out of it. She had the best ass he’d ever seen in person or in print, and just thinking about it made his dick give a little stir.
    A tiny smile curled her lips. “Let me guess. There’s a barroom brawl involved, isn’t there?”
    Bryant slipped the gearshift into Drive and made his way toward the exit. “It’s not that clichéd,” he said. “But almost. Substitute the barroom brawl for a front-row fracas and you’re right on the money.”
    She shot him a look. “Front-row fracas? You were at a concert?”
    Smiling, he nodded. “I was. I’m a fan. A guy in the front got a little rowdy, broke a beer bottle against the stage and thought about hurling it at Clint.”
    â€œThought about?”
    â€œThat’s all he got to do. I stopped him before he could follow through on the action.” He shrugged. “Clint was impressed with my efforts and the rest is history. I started out as part of the detail, and when Marshall retired, I took his spot as lead on the touring team.”
    She nodded, seeming to mull that over. “And what do you do when he’s not touring?”
    Frankly, given his salary with Clint, he didn’t have to do anything. He could do whatever he wanted. But that had never been his style. Bryant liked to be busy. Idle hands, the devil’s playground and all of that. Even on the bus, he had to have something to do.
    While touring he liked to whittle, loved the feel of wood beneath his fingers, watching it take form, then worked on his bigger metal sculptures when he was at home. Nothinggave him more satisfaction than firing up his blowtorch and getting to work, making something beautiful out of old parts and discarded metals. Gratifyingly, he’d sold several pieces and was beginning to make a name for himself. He’d also cast a few personal pieces of jewelry, most notably a pewter tree set he was quite proud of.
    â€œI’ve got a studio at home and do a little sculpting,” he told her.
    From the corner of his eye, he watched her expression go from bored disinterest to surprised astonishment. “What?” he asked, chuckling low under his breath. “Is it so hard to believe?”
    â€œNot hard to believe,” she said. “Just hard to reconcile. Badass security agent turned sculptor is a bit of a stretch. What’s your medium?”
    â€œMetal.”
    She aahed knowingly and inclined her head. “Not so much of a stretch then.”
    Badass? Bryant thought, secretly pleased with her assessment, then berated himself. It didn’t matter what she thought, dammit. She was off-limits. She was trouble. Layla Cole wasn’t someone he could fool around with and walk away unscathed. He’d known that since the first moment he’d wandered into her orbit and had been fighting her emotional gravity ever since.
    The monstrous physical attraction only complicated things further.
    He could feel her, was keenly aware of every breath that traveled in and out of her lungs, every minuscule shift of her body. The scent of her invaded the car and twined around his senses. It was something vaguely floral with warm undertones, reminiscent of lotus petals and sandalwood. It made him want to slide his nose along her shoulder and up her neck, bury his hands in her hair and taste the plum softness of her mouth.His hands and balls tightened simultaneously, making him shift in his seat.
    â€œClint didn’t elaborate about the schedule when he called. Will we be traveling by bus on to the next location