often. Two, actually, one being the fact that her father was an alcoholic and she was afraid that trait was hereditary. Secondly, because drinking always made her relaxed and chatty – and there weren’t many people she wanted to be that way around.
Somehow, she’d managed to choke down half a bottle of champagne in the last half hour, and her worst nightmare was coming true – she was getting too candid with a hot stranger.
Because as her inhibitions were stripped away one bubble at a time, she admitted to herself just how wildly attractive she found him. No, screw attractive – he was hot . The weathered lines on his face, the thickness of his hair, the compact musculature under his shirt – hot. And he was just her size, too, which was an added bonus.
She stared at him, and he stared back with a narrow-eyed, unreadable gaze that she found unnerving at other times – completely enthralling now.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and she thought he almost smiled.
Shit, she couldn’t tell him what she was sitting here thinking. She’d have to come up with a convincing lie. “I’m wondering what part of England you’re from,” she said. “And if everyone there is as hot as you.”
Damn it! She wasn’t supposed to say that part.
His smile was slow, sly, and pleased.
“Oh no.” Emmie turned away and slapped her forehead down into her palm. The darkening lawn before her swayed. Way, way too much champagne. “Is there any chance you can pretend I didn’t say that?”
“Not in the slightest.”
She groaned. Gapped her fingers and twisted just enough to see his smiling face through them. “I didn’t mean it, you know. It just came out. Like champagne-induced word vomit.”
His laugh was quiet, but it did twirly things to her insides.
“Here.” She thrust the bottle toward him, the liquid inside sloshing thanks to her unsteady hand. “Take this before it gets any worse.”
“Worse? You gonna start telling me why you think I’m so hot?”
“I said ‘hot,’ not ‘so hot.’”
“Big difference?”
“Huge.” And for some reason, the word huge heated her cheeks until she knew they had to be pink. What had he said before? Something about not being small where it counted? “Shit.”
He laughed again – what a smoky, wonderful sound it was; she had no idea a laugh could have a British accent, but it was making her blush all the harder. God, she’d lost all self-control.
She really did need to get laid apparently.
But then Walsh seemed to take pity on her, grabbed the bottle back from her and said, “So how’d you end up at this place anyway? Why’s it mean so much to you?”
A nice safe, non-sexual topic.
Emmie lifted her head, squinted against the heaving of the lawn in front of them. Night was fast falling, and it made her vision even blurrier. “I was eight,” she said, “and I wanted riding lessons more than I wanted to take my next breath. Mom finally relented, looked up Amy in the paper classifieds – that was back when people went to the newspaper for information, you know.”
“Hmm.”
“And I had my very first riding lesson on an Appaloosa named Cheyenne. He was a hundred-years-old, but he was sweet, and I – God, even though I was on the longe line, and all I did was trot a little, it was like someone had given me wings. Like I could fly. Like who I
Somehow, she’d managed to choke down half a bottle of champagne in the last half hour, and her worst nightmare was coming true – she was getting too candid with a hot stranger.
Because as her inhibitions were stripped away one bubble at a time, she admitted to herself just how wildly attractive she found him. No, screw attractive – he was hot . The weathered lines on his face, the thickness of his hair, the compact musculature under his shirt – hot. And he was just her size, too, which was an added bonus.
She stared at him, and he stared back with a narrow-eyed, unreadable gaze that she found unnerving at other times – completely enthralling now.
“What are you doing?” he asked, and she thought he almost smiled.
Shit, she couldn’t tell him what she was sitting here thinking. She’d have to come up with a convincing lie. “I’m wondering what part of England you’re from,” she said. “And if everyone there is as hot as you.”
Damn it! She wasn’t supposed to say that part.
His smile was slow, sly, and pleased.
“Oh no.” Emmie turned away and slapped her forehead down into her palm. The darkening lawn before her swayed. Way, way too much champagne. “Is there any chance you can pretend I didn’t say that?”
“Not in the slightest.”
She groaned. Gapped her fingers and twisted just enough to see his smiling face through them. “I didn’t mean it, you know. It just came out. Like champagne-induced word vomit.”
His laugh was quiet, but it did twirly things to her insides.
“Here.” She thrust the bottle toward him, the liquid inside sloshing thanks to her unsteady hand. “Take this before it gets any worse.”
“Worse? You gonna start telling me why you think I’m so hot?”
“I said ‘hot,’ not ‘so hot.’”
“Big difference?”
“Huge.” And for some reason, the word huge heated her cheeks until she knew they had to be pink. What had he said before? Something about not being small where it counted? “Shit.”
He laughed again – what a smoky, wonderful sound it was; she had no idea a laugh could have a British accent, but it was making her blush all the harder. God, she’d lost all self-control.
She really did need to get laid apparently.
But then Walsh seemed to take pity on her, grabbed the bottle back from her and said, “So how’d you end up at this place anyway? Why’s it mean so much to you?”
A nice safe, non-sexual topic.
Emmie lifted her head, squinted against the heaving of the lawn in front of them. Night was fast falling, and it made her vision even blurrier. “I was eight,” she said, “and I wanted riding lessons more than I wanted to take my next breath. Mom finally relented, looked up Amy in the paper classifieds – that was back when people went to the newspaper for information, you know.”
“Hmm.”
“And I had my very first riding lesson on an Appaloosa named Cheyenne. He was a hundred-years-old, but he was sweet, and I – God, even though I was on the longe line, and all I did was trot a little, it was like someone had given me wings. Like I could fly. Like who I
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