“Sports,” Gemma breathed out. “We were talking about sports.”
“That we were. And what we learned is that you’re the only person in this bar who’s never heard of my hockey team.”
“In my defense, I moved to Indianapolis less than a year ago.”
“Fair.” I rapped my knuckles on the bar. “Where did you move from?”
It was the simplest question but her reaction to it had me taking notice. The fire went right out of her, and she drew in on herself—arms hugging her middle, shoulders slumped, eyes dropping to the floor.
“Chicago.” The word was said so softly I almost didn’t hear it.
Instantly on alert, I offered her my hand. “Hey, Gemma. Look at me.”
Those beautiful hazel eyes flicked up, and I nearly stopped breathing when her soft palm slid against mine. This was thefirst time she’d let me touch her—that fact triggered something in my brain and set off alarm bells.
“Did someone hurt you? Are you in danger?”
A rush of air flew past her lips. “It’s complicated.”
I shook my head, threading our fingers together so she couldn’t pull away. “No, it’s not. It’s a yes or no question. Did you or did you not move to Indianapolis to hide from someone?”
Gemma swallowed. “I’m not exactly hiding, but I am running.”
“From a guy?”
It killed me to think that there was some asshole out there looking for her, thinking she belonged to him. Because he couldn’t be more wrong. She was mine. I wasn’t letting anyone take her away from me.
“My family.”
My brows rose. That wasn’t the answer I’d been expecting.
Gemma was a thirty-seven-year-old woman, and as far as I could tell, she was capable and strong. She held her own. So what had made her so terrified of her family that she’d uprooted her life and moved hundreds of miles from home?
She pulled her hand away from mine, and I mourned the loss of her touch. “Look, if it’s all the same to you, I don’t really want to talk about it, okay?”
“Okay,” I agreed softly.
Sighing, Gemma ran a hand down her face. “What are we doing?”
“Um.” My gaze swept the room. “Sitting in a bar?”
“No, I mean this.” She gestured between us. “What’s it going to take to make you move on?”
The answer was simple: I had no plans of ever moving on from her. I was fully committed to her until death do us part.
But I knew she wasn’t receptive to that idea. Not yet.
So instead, I took what most people would deem as the next logical step in our relationship. “Let me take you out.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She shook her head, and the loosely tied bun resting atop it wobbled with the movement.
“Why not?” I challenged.
“Because I don’t want you to get attached.”
Too late for that.
Resting my elbows on the bar, I leaned closer. “Just give me one date, Gemma. One chance to convince you that we might have something special. If you’re still not interested after that, I’ll let you go.”
