Hang Tough (31 page)

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Just What I Needed,

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Trinity Carlson might be having the worst day ever. And that was before she started drinking in a dive bar, right across from her ex and his new girlfriend. So when she finally decides enough is enough, she grabs hold of a hot, blond stranger and gives him the kiss of his life.

Walker Lund never expected that a chance at love would hit him right on the mouth. Since the moment his brother decided to settle down, Walker has been dodging his family's hopes that he'll do the same. He's never been interested in following in anyone's footsteps. But when he discovers his sexy assailant has given him a fake name and number he suddenly finds himself in the mood for a little hot pursuit . . .

A
fter lunch, which I ate alone in my car, I started on the first set, a forest scene. It wasn't a happy bright blue sky, but an ominous gray. The pine trees were dark, angry slashes of green. I began to add layers, smaller trees, bushes and a rock-strewn path. These layers were softer, with feathery-looking pine needles, and a faint hint of light glowed beneath the lowest boughs.

I stepped back to gauge the image as a whole. It needed more distinct branches in the trees in the middle. Add a few dabs of yellow-green to balance the gray shadows and then this one was done. I snatched my bottle of water off the table and drained it.

“I hate to admit it, but you are one amazingly talented artist.”

Startled by the deep voice, I dropped the bottle on the floor and whirled around. “God. Don't sneak up on me like that.”

Walker had his hands in the pockets of his well-worn jeans. “Sneak up on you? I've been right here watching you for the last half hour.” He paused. “You didn't know I was here?”

I shook my head. “People have said bombs could go off around me when I'm working and I wouldn't notice.”

“I don't know if I've ever experienced that level of concentration—to say nothing of harnessing it repeatedly on cue to create something like that.”

Usually I let compliments—and criticisms—roll off me. Yet his praise struck a chord since it wasn't about the finished product, but his appreciation of the process. “Thank you.” Feeling self-conscious, I grabbed a smaller round brush and returned to painting.

I twisted the brush as I moved down the image. After the third pass, when I still felt him watching me, I said, “I'm sorry.”

“For?” he said behind me, closer than he'd been a few minutes ago.

“For not correcting your assumption my name was Amelia.”

During his silence, I fought the urge to fill the conversational void.

Finally he sighed. “I've spent the last four days pissed off, directing my anger outward because I knew exactly where the blame belonged.”

On you.

“Evidently my ego couldn't handle the fact
I
might've screwed up, so it conveniently blocked that part out.”

I snickered.

“What's funny?”

“That typical male response. You admit you have an ego but act like it's a separate appendage you have no control over. Kind of like when guys claim the little head is always at war with the big head for who's in control.”

He laughed.

God. He had such an awesome laugh.

“Can you stop painting happy little trees for a moment and look at me?”

I whirled around. “Did you seriously just make a Bob Ross reference?”

“Why? Do you hate him or something?”

“No! I love him. In fact, he's a large part of why I became an artist. He was so positive and encouraging, which was so not the norm in my childhood. And it's not the norm in the art world either. He took such joy in creating. I loved how he made it look so effortless, even when I kind of resented him for that too, because it's
not
easy. Some of the
happiest times in my childhood were spent in front of an easel, just me and Bob Ross on the TV in the background, painting happy little trees.”

Walker was studying me.

“What? Do I have paint on my face or something?”

He shook his head. I swear his mouth twitched as if he was trying not to laugh.

Then I realized I'd gone off on a tangent again. Annoyed with myself, I said, “Stop staring at me.”

“But I really like your face. And I thought I wouldn't see it again, sweetheart, so I'm gonna look my fill.”

I had no idea how to respond to that.

“Can I ask you something?” He paused in speaking but kept inching forward. “Did you consider getting in touch with me?”

“I considered it.”

“And?”

“And I concluded chances were slim you'd lay a big wet kiss on me if you saw
me
again after you discovered you had the wrong name and number for me
from
me, so I let it go.”

“You didn't think about me at all?”

I hedged, pointing the paintbrush at him to stop his advancement. “I have to finish this. So if you want to continue talking, you'll be talking to my back.”

As soon as I turned around, I heard, “Then you can't complain if I'm staring at your ass.”

Shivers danced down my spine from the sexy, growly way he'd said that.

I switched brushes and colors.

“You were wrong to assume that I wouldn't want contact with you,” he continued. “My brother offered to track you down with the little information I had. But I told him I just wanted to forget the whole thing.” He laughed softly. “Of course, you're here—the last place I expected to run into you.”

Using the wooden end of the paintbrush, I dragged lines through the paint, adding another facet to the branches. “So what now?”

“You tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“That Tuesday night was a fluke.”

His denial surprised me. Or was he baiting me? “I should admit I'd had too many drinks and that was the only reason I kissed you?”

“Was it?”

“No. But I think you know that.”

He exhaled loudly. “I do. I mean I did and then I didn't, and now I'm really freakin' glad I didn't imagine this.”

My hand stopped midair. “But you said you wanted to forget the whole thing.”

“That was then.” Walker had moved in close enough that his breath drifted across the nape of my neck. “This is now. As far as I'm concerned, we haven't even started.”

“You are confusing me.”

“Welcome to the club, sweetheart.”

“Do I get to choose a welcome gift for becoming a new member of this club?”

He laughed. “You have a bizarre sense of humor.”

“So I've heard. Sorry.”

“Don't be. I like it.”

“Really? Most people don't get it. Most people don't get me.”

“Their loss. Because I get you.”

I almost demanded he prove it because I didn't want to get my hopes up about this guy.

The soft bristles of his beard grazed my cheek. “Trinity.”

Gooseflesh rippled down my arm from his mouth being so close to my skin. “What?”

“Can you look at me?”

I turned around. This man was just so . . . manly. Big athletic body, toned muscles, and I couldn't help but wonder if the hair on his chest was as thick as his beard.

Warm, rough-skinned fingers rested beneath my chin when he angled my head up to peer into my face. And those eyes of his.
Sigh
. Cerulean blue on the outer ring, a smoky gray by his pupil. Beautifully expressive and laser focused with intensity on me right now.

“There are millions of people in the Twin Cities. There are hundreds of bars, theaters and volunteer organizations. The chances of us randomly running into each other twice in one week are miniscule. But we did.” His thumb brushed over the divot in my chin. “I'm considering it a sign.”

Chills danced down my spine. I was glad he'd said it first. Part of me wanted to point out this connection could be a bad sign just as easily as a good one, but the hope—and, yes, forgiveness—on his face had the rebuttal drying on my tongue.

“Let's start over.”

“You want to pretend that kiss never happened?”

“No. I want to pretend you gave me your real phone number and real name so I can spend time with the real you.”

“That was the real me in the bar, Walker.”

He smiled. “Good. Because I liked you.”

“Past tense?”

“So literal for an artist,” he murmured. “The past is past. But I want the future tense to belong to me.”

Okay. His confidence? Completely sexy.

“Come out with me tonight. You owe me that much since you did agree to a date.”

His insistence didn't surprise me. But I'd had an exhausting week. All I wanted was to slip between my sheets, try to shut down for a solid eight hours. “Thank you for the offer. But I'll be worthless company tonight.”

“I doubt that.” He touched my cheek. “Just dinner, then. You have to eat.”

“Do I look like I miss many meals?”

Walker's eyes turned stormy. “Don't.”

“Don't what?”

“Say shit like that about yourself. I like what I see when I look at you, Trinity.”

“Oh.” That was really sweet. “I like what I see when I look at you too.”

“But that's not a point in my favor right now, is it? You're still turning me down for dinner.”

I set my hand on his chest. As hard and muscular as I remembered. “Yes. Just for tonight, though.”

“How about lunch tomorrow? A long lunch.”

He smiled—
oh, hello, sexy dimples
. I wanted to press my lips to the deep divots and feel his beard tickling my lips. Next time I kissed him, I'd take it slow and explore.

“So is that a yes?” he pressed.

My focus snapped back to his eyes. “It depends on where you're taking me. I'm not a fan of bar food—chicken wings, nachos, all that fried crap.”

“Got it. Any other things to avoid?”

“I spend so much time inside that I'd like to enjoy the fresh air—as long as it's not a hundred degrees in the shade.” I could see the ideas churning in his head and then one clicked.

“You're all right with it just being us tomorrow? Not in a restaurant or a bar or surrounded by people?”

I appreciated that he'd asked and hadn't assumed. “Sounds good. Where are we meeting?” I knew he probably expected to pick me up, but I needed the option of being able to leave whenever I wanted.

“I'll text you around ten and let you know. I have to check on a
couple of things before I decide exactly where we're going.” His eyes roamed my face. “Bring a hat and sunscreen.”

“Anything else I should bring?”

“Just your beautiful self.”

“You are smooth.” I slid my hand up and curled it around his neck, intending to pull his mouth down to mine. But something stopped me.

“I have no problem with you taking the lead,” he murmured. “Kiss me anytime you get the overwhelming urge again. But this time, it's my turn.”

I groaned when our lips met and he swallowed the sound in a hot and hungry kiss. I hadn't embellished this passion between us. And he seemed determined to remind me of that with every teasing flick of his tongue, with every soft growl, with every angle he moved my head so he could delve deeper into the kiss.

When he broke the seal of our mouths, my lips tingled and my head buzzed. I'd melted against him and was having a hard time remembering why I couldn't stay right there forever.

Oh yeah. I'd opted to give up more of this to go home alone to my quiet house and my neurotic, cranky cat who hated me.

Sometimes I'm a complete idiot.

Stepping back, he said, “Got that new number memorized yet?” and pulled out his phone.

I'd given the number out enough times in the past few days I could rattle it off without writing the digits on my wrist every morning.

Ten seconds later my phone buzzed in my purse.

He smirked at me. “Just checking.”

“I'm glad you see the humor in it.”

“I do now. But at the start of my day . . . let's just say being pissed off isn't always hell on productivity. I finished twice as many set cutouts as I'd planned.”

“I'm taking credit for that.”

“See you tomorrow,
Trinity.”

Portrait of author by Russell Lloyd Jensen © Sage Studios

Lorelei James
is the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestselling author of contemporary erotic romances set in the modern-day Wild West. Lorelei lives in western South Dakota with her family . . . and a whole closetful of cowgirl boots.