The Reluctant Nude - Meg Maguire [31]
“Thanks. Let’s forget it now.”
His lips twitched. “But that was better, you know. You did very well just then.” He took a drink to hide his smile.
Her own mouth pursed in disapproving amusement.
For many songs they sat together, exchanging neither looks nor words. Occasionally one would turn to order a fresh drink, or lean over to allow another patron to speak to the barman. After an hour the band wrapped their set and the lights came up for an intermission. Max swiveled his stool around and Fallon followed suit. Together they leaned on the bar.
“Enjoying yourself?” he asked. It had been many years since he’d flirted tipsily with a woman in the languid neon of a bar. It made him ache for a cigarette.
“Yeah. It’s nice.”
“Try to not be too hungover for your sitting tomorrow,” he teased as her fourth drink arrived.
“Ditto.”
True, Max would feel the wine when he stood next, but he craved the intoxication. He needed that with Fallon. She’d made her boundaries crystal clear, and he needed at least another glass before he could disregard them.
“You don’t smoke, do you?” he asked.
“No. Why? Are you going outside?”
He shook his head. “I haven’t smoked in many years. But I would have enjoyed breathing in your seconds.”
She grinned, nose crinkling in the most delicious way. “My best friend quit a couple years ago. She still tails smokers on the sidewalk to get a fix now and then. ‘Nice state of affairs when a man has to indulge his vices by proxy,’” Fallon added with a private smirk.
“This is from something?”
“It’s from The Big Sleep.” She took a deep drink of her beer. “You know how I love those old movies.”
He stared at her, wishing he were somehow allowed to grab her by those full hips and yank her into his lap, wrap those legs around his waist—
“You’re staring again.”
He turned his attention to the corner where the next band was setting up. The bar suddenly lost its appeal.
“It’s very loud here.” He watched his cheap cabernet as he swirled his glass. “Why don’t you come for a walk with me?”
“Where to?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I could walk you home. I haven’t seen your cottage.”
“Maybe.”
“It’s dark out. There are bad men in this town, with bad intentions.”
There was a smile in her voice. “I’m sure there are.”
Fallon was drunk.
She’d had about five drinks in last few hours, and although she felt perfectly coherent and charming, she knew she was lacking substantially in the inhibition department. Strolling beside her on the barely lit shoulder of the main road, Max kept his eyes on his feet. He was wearing his running shoes and a fitted gray hoodie whose arm bore the green and yellow insignia of some French soccer team. He looked hip in that enviable, effortless way only Europeans can muster.
“What are you thinking about?” She asked it partly so she could stop wondering for a moment what would happen when they reached her lodgings. She wouldn’t invite him in, that was for damn sure. Or reasonably damn sure.
“I am thinking I am drunk,” Max said with a small laugh.
“Me too.”
“I am thinking, I have to remember not to try to kiss you when we say good night,” he said, conversational.
“Yes, do remember that.” She stifled a very un-Fallonish giggle, amused by how maladroit this elegant man could be sometimes.
“It is only because I’m drunk.”
“Oh, thanks very much,” she shot back, faking offense.
“No no—you know it’s not like that. You know you’re beautiful.”
“If you say so.”
His pace slowed, and she could make out his face, feel his attention turned to her. “You really don’t think so?”
“I’m all right. If you like a wash-and-go kind of woman.”
“I am not sure what that means, but you are beautiful for any kind of woman.”
She ignored the instinct urging her to contradict him.
“I have been with a lot of women,” Max began, and Fallon interrupted him with a caustic laugh.
“Wow, way to go.”
“But you are more beautiful than all of them,” he continued. “I do not know why, but you are.”
“Sure. Let’s just get you a breathalyzer and I bet we’ll get to the bottom of