massive burdens. The hand that cradled hers was slightly rough. This was a man who'd never had a manicure, never taken a Pilates class and probably didn't own a suit.
In short, he was a real man. Unlike the pampered men of her acquaintance. Most of whom, she was sorry to say, were likable, but were just a little bit...well, that is to say...well, they were sissies. And until this moment, she'd never realized that bothered her. She'd never known she wanted anything else.
Her face was only inches from his shirt and she had to fight against the sudden impulse to bury her nose in his chest. To rub her cheek against his sternum like a cat marking her territory.
It had been so long since she felt this kind of instant sexual attraction to someone. Geesh, had she ever felt this kind of attraction? She didn't think so.
Not that she planned on acting on it. A one-night stand was so not part of her five-year plan.
"I don't even know your name," she muttered aloud.
"Ford," he murmured.
He'd ducked his head before speaking so the word came out as warmth brushing past her ear. She suppressed a shiver.
"Like the car?" she asked.
He chuckled. "Yep. Like the car."
Geesh, indeed. Even his name was masculine. Why couldn't he have had a name that was just a bit more androgynous? Like Gene or Pat. Or BMW.
She didn't manage to stifle her chuckle.
"You're imagining me named after other car brands, aren't you?"
Her gaze shot to his. "How did you know?"
"It's pretty common. People usually think one of two things and you just seemed the type to wonder, 'What if he'd been named Chevy?'"
"Are you saying I'm predictable?" Even though the lighting was dim, she could see that his eyes were whiskey-brown. And just as intoxicating as the tequila in her drink.
"Not at all," he reassured her. "You could have been thinking Dodge."
"It was BMW, actually. I can't see you as something as clunky as a Dodge." Was she flirting with him? What was wrong with her?
"So you're a woman who appreciates precision engineering."
Actually, I'm a woman who enjoys precision in everything.
The words had been on the tip of her tongue. Thank God she swallowed them. Instead she asked, "What's the second?"
"Second what?"
"You said people usually think one of two things. If the first is other car names, then what's the second?"
His lips quirked in either amusement or chagrin. "They wonder if I was conceived in the back of a Ford."
"Ah." Perhaps that had been chagrin, then. And was that the faintest hint of pink creeping into his cheeks? As if he were just a tad embarrassed. "And were you?"
"That," he said firmly, "is a question I was never brave enough to ask my parents." They both chuckled then. A moment later he added, "But I have three sisters and their names are not Mattress, Kitchen Table and Sofa, so I think I'm safe."
She nearly asked what the names of his three sisters were, but she stopped herself. Somehow that seemed inappropriate. More personal, even, than the discussion of his conception. She didn't know Ford. Didn't want to know him longer than the length of this song. Personal details like the names of his sisters didn't matter. So instead, she gave in to her temptation to rest her cheek against the strong wall of his chest and to breathe in deeply.
After a moment he said, "I hope you don't judge Dale too harshly."
"Dale?"
"The guy hitting on you earlier."
"Ah. Him." She'd forgotten he even existed.
"He's been going through a rough divorce. His wife left him for a guy who's twenty-three years old."
"Ouch. That's got to be hard on the ego."
"Exactly. Which is why he's been a mite irritable lately. But what exactly did you say to him that made him so mad?"
She cringed, hesitating before answering him. "I said he looked like Elmer Fudd."
Ford seemed to be suppressing laughter. "I can't imagine why that offended him. Everybody loves Elmer Fudd."
"That's what I tried to tell him!"
They both chuckled. But then she looked up. For a moment,
In short, he was a real man. Unlike the pampered men of her acquaintance. Most of whom, she was sorry to say, were likable, but were just a little bit...well, that is to say...well, they were sissies. And until this moment, she'd never realized that bothered her. She'd never known she wanted anything else.
Her face was only inches from his shirt and she had to fight against the sudden impulse to bury her nose in his chest. To rub her cheek against his sternum like a cat marking her territory.
It had been so long since she felt this kind of instant sexual attraction to someone. Geesh, had she ever felt this kind of attraction? She didn't think so.
Not that she planned on acting on it. A one-night stand was so not part of her five-year plan.
"I don't even know your name," she muttered aloud.
"Ford," he murmured.
He'd ducked his head before speaking so the word came out as warmth brushing past her ear. She suppressed a shiver.
"Like the car?" she asked.
He chuckled. "Yep. Like the car."
Geesh, indeed. Even his name was masculine. Why couldn't he have had a name that was just a bit more androgynous? Like Gene or Pat. Or BMW.
She didn't manage to stifle her chuckle.
"You're imagining me named after other car brands, aren't you?"
Her gaze shot to his. "How did you know?"
"It's pretty common. People usually think one of two things and you just seemed the type to wonder, 'What if he'd been named Chevy?'"
"Are you saying I'm predictable?" Even though the lighting was dim, she could see that his eyes were whiskey-brown. And just as intoxicating as the tequila in her drink.
"Not at all," he reassured her. "You could have been thinking Dodge."
"It was BMW, actually. I can't see you as something as clunky as a Dodge." Was she flirting with him? What was wrong with her?
"So you're a woman who appreciates precision engineering."
Actually, I'm a woman who enjoys precision in everything.
The words had been on the tip of her tongue. Thank God she swallowed them. Instead she asked, "What's the second?"
"Second what?"
"You said people usually think one of two things. If the first is other car names, then what's the second?"
His lips quirked in either amusement or chagrin. "They wonder if I was conceived in the back of a Ford."
"Ah." Perhaps that had been chagrin, then. And was that the faintest hint of pink creeping into his cheeks? As if he were just a tad embarrassed. "And were you?"
"That," he said firmly, "is a question I was never brave enough to ask my parents." They both chuckled then. A moment later he added, "But I have three sisters and their names are not Mattress, Kitchen Table and Sofa, so I think I'm safe."
She nearly asked what the names of his three sisters were, but she stopped herself. Somehow that seemed inappropriate. More personal, even, than the discussion of his conception. She didn't know Ford. Didn't want to know him longer than the length of this song. Personal details like the names of his sisters didn't matter. So instead, she gave in to her temptation to rest her cheek against the strong wall of his chest and to breathe in deeply.
After a moment he said, "I hope you don't judge Dale too harshly."
"Dale?"
"The guy hitting on you earlier."
"Ah. Him." She'd forgotten he even existed.
"He's been going through a rough divorce. His wife left him for a guy who's twenty-three years old."
"Ouch. That's got to be hard on the ego."
"Exactly. Which is why he's been a mite irritable lately. But what exactly did you say to him that made him so mad?"
She cringed, hesitating before answering him. "I said he looked like Elmer Fudd."
Ford seemed to be suppressing laughter. "I can't imagine why that offended him. Everybody loves Elmer Fudd."
"That's what I tried to tell him!"
They both chuckled. But then she looked up. For a moment,
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