take another.” Two drinks would relax her. When the barkeep delivered her refill, her stomach had warmed from the alcohol and her ears no longer winced at the crazy lady singing another oldie but goody. After the second song the rhinestone beauty abandoned the microphone and a quarter found its way into the jukebox.
“Let’s dance.” Porter held out his hand.
Wendy finished her drink, then stood and swayed toward Porter. She braced her hands against his chest and closed her eyes. “Whoever built this place did a horrible job with the floors. They’re sloped downward.”
Porter’s chuckle drifted into her ear. Wendy could get used to having his hands on her. Standing this close to him, she noticed the bump on the bridge of his nose—he’d probably broken it roughhousing with his brothers. She shifted her gaze to his mouth. How would those masculine lips feel...? He lowered his head, closing the distance between their faces.
No. She pushed away from him and walked over to the stage. She picked up the microphone and tapped her finger against it, then jumped at the loud thump that echoed from the speakers on the floor.
“How does this work?”
Right then the song “Nine to Five” by Dolly Parton began playing and the screen hanging from the ceiling displayed the lyrics. Wendy made an attempt to sing along, but couldn’t keep up with the bouncing ball and sounded like an idiot. When the song ended, the group of men whistled. “Would you like me to sing another?” she asked.
“One song is enough,” Porter said.
“I wasn’t that bad, was I?” She looked at her fans. The men saluted her with their beer bottles.
“How about a game of darts?” Porter asked.
“I’ve never played before.” She accepted his help off the stage.
“I’ll show you how to hit the bull’s-eye.” He laid money on the bar and the barkeep handed them two sets of darts.
“Can I have the blue ones?” she asked.
“Sure.” Porter stood behind Wendy, grasped her wrist and raised her arm.
“What are you doing?” she whispered when his breath feathered across the back of her neck.
“Showing you how to throw.” He pulled her arm back and then thrust it forward. She released the dart and it sailed across the room, hitting the wall next to the board.
“You’re not a very good teacher,” she said, turning around.
“I’m better at other things.” The heat in his eyes stole her breath.
If you kiss him, you’ll compromise your investigation.
Right now she didn’t care about her job. All she wanted was to feel Porter’s mouth on hers.
He stepped back suddenly. “It’s late. We’d better go.”
Wendy followed, relieved one of them had come to their senses before it was too late—she just wished it had been her and not Porter.
Dang. Porter had almost kissed Wendy. Good thing he’d come to his senses before he’d made that blunder.
He held her arm as they crossed the parking lot. Two Scotches had made her tipsy—hopefully tipsy enough that she wouldn’t remember their almost kiss. Shoot, he didn’t dare do anything to jeopardize his job with Del Mar Rodeo.
Still, he wouldn’t be a man if he didn’t admit that a part of him wanted Wendy to mull over what almost happened tonight. Why? Because she’d wiggled her way beneath his skin. She was unlike any of the women he’d known or dated. He tended to avoid responsible, career-minded females. But Wendy had loosened up and the sparkle in her brown eyes had triggered a few fantasies—riding horses in the mountains together, taking a walk through the pecan groves, the two of them sitting in the front seat of his truck listening to a Luke Bryan CD.
You could have kissed her inside the bar. She wouldn’t have stopped you.
That’s exactly why he hadn’t kissed her. The joke would have been on him when Wendy rolled out of bed tomorrow and realized she’d made a huge mistake. Then he’d look like a fool. And if being embarrassed wasn’t enough motivation to keep his hands and his lips to himself, knowing Dixie would never forgive him if he hurt her friend was.
He opened the passenger-side door, but Wendy didn’t get in. “What’s the matter?”
She stared him square in the eye. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why didn’t you kiss me?”
Oh, man. The Wendy glaring at him didn’t appear tipsy anymore—maybe the cool evening air had cleared the alcohol fog from her head. Porter worried anything that came out of his mouth would land him in trouble, but her steely stare insisted she wasn’t backing down.
“You had too much to drink and I didn’t want to take advantage of you.” That sounded noble.
“Bull.”
His mouth sagged open.
“Don’t lie. You didn’t kiss me because you’re not attracted to me.”
“What?” Maybe the bartender had slipped a Mickey into her drink and she was hallucinating.
“I’m not as sexy as those buckle bunnies who cheered for you at the rodeo.”
“The heck you aren’t.”
She cupped her hands around her petite breasts and pushed them together. “My boobs aren’t big enough, are they?”
Holy smokes. Someone would have to put a loaded gun to his head before he answered that question.
She fluffed her hair. “And I’m not a blonde.”
“I like your dark hair.” Especially when she wore it loose and the strands fell across her shoulders.
“I don’t have curves.”
He put one hand on each hip and his fingertips almost met in the middle of her back. “Your curves are perfect.” He wanted to slide his hands beneath her shirt and caress her naked skin.
“Plus, I’m short.”
“You’re the perfect height.” If he pulled her against him, the top of her head would fit snugly beneath his chin. All this talk about her imperfect body played havoc with his male anatomy, and his jeans grew uncomfortably tight. “You finished?”
“Finished with what?”
“Your tirade.”
She stamped her foot on top of his boot.
“Ouch!” He dropped his hands from her waist.
“I don’t know why I ever thought you were cute.”
He grinned. “You think I’m cute?”
“I used to back in high school.”
Porter recalled one afternoon when Wendy visited the pecan farm and her eyes had followed him when he and his brothers had played football in the yard.
“Now you’re nothing but a...a...”
“Go on.”
“A...a...womanizer!”
He couldn’t deny the charge. He’d flirted with a lot of cowgirls through the years, but what most people didn’t know was that he could count on a single hand—minus the thumb and forefinger—the number of one-night stands he’d had. He wasn’t a love ’em and leave ’em kind of guy. He liked spending time with a woman and getting to know her. And right now he was thinking he’d really like to get to know Wendy as more than his sister’s friend.