Wrapped in cowboy arms.
Held by strong hands.
Kissed by a man who looked at me like I was something irreplaceable.
So yeah.
This was just a one-time thing.
Definitely.
Absolutely.
Probably.
Chapter 11
Grant
I slam the truck door harder than necessary, the sound echoing in the quiet night. My hands are still shaking, and my lips burn with the memory of Mia's taste. What the hell just happened?
One minute we were kissing—really kissing—like my whole body was on fire, and the next she was gone, leaving nothing but the ghost of her touch and the scent of her perfume on my shirt.
“Dammit,” I mutter, stalking into my house and tossing my keys onto the kitchen counter.
I grab a beer from the fridge, twist the cap off, and take a long pull. The cold liquid does nothing to cool the heat still coursing through my veins.
I've kissed plenty of women, but none of them left me feeling like this—unmoored, desperate, like I can't catch my breath.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Mason.
I swipe to answer and grunt, “What?”
“Damn,” Mason says with a laugh. “That your sexy voice, or are you just cranky ‘cause you finally got rejected for once?”
“I didn’t get rejected,” I mutter, even though it sounds like a lie even to me.
“You disappeared from your own bar, man. You left your drink. You never leave your drink. Everything okay?”
I consider lying, but what's the point? Mason has an uncanny ability to see right through my bullshit ever since we were kids.
I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. “I kissed her.”
A pause. “Who?”
“Mia.”
Mason whistles low. “The yoga girl?”
“The one and only.” I say as I walk down the hall to my bedroom.
“Didn’t think you had it in you to make a move outside the arena.”
“Well, I did. And then she bolted. Again.”
Mason's low whistle carries through the phone. “She's got you twisted up, huh?”
“I'm not twisted up,” I protest, though the tightness in my chest says otherwise.
