A big hand with short, clean nails entered her line of sight, and Cherrie traced the surprisingly elegant fingers up to a thick wrist, past a heavily tattooed arm, onto a broad shoulder, and finally, to the face of angles and slants that edged too-harsh and slammed right up against beautiful.
A ginger.
In the dimmer lighting of the bar, she’d assumed his hair was a dark brown. But this close, the light directly above them revealed the rich auburn strands that gleamed like fire and the longer strands that tickled his sharp cheekbones and the deep red scruff that covered his jaw and emphasized that carnal mouth.
Aw, hell. She had a weakness for gingers. She had ever since Corey Rowe stole her language workbook in the eighth grade and drew anatomically correct dicks all over the inside cover. Yes, today that would be considered sexual harassment. But back then? She’d crushed on him harder because he’d cared enough to draw his very best.
With a silent, almost defeated sigh, Cherrie pressed her palm to his and wasn’t surprised at the electrical current that tingled from their clasped hands up her arm and zipped to her breasts. And lower.
Oh God.
This wasn’t good.
“Nice to meet you,” she murmured, then snatched her hand back and unobtrusively rubbed it along her denim-clad thigh.
His crystal blue eyes narrowed on her. Huh. Maybe not as unobtrusive as she thought.
This sooo wasn’t good.
“Same here,” he said, then nodded at Belinda. “Be right back with your beer.” And true to his word, moments later, he returned with a brown bottle with the blue label. “Here you go, Belinda. What about you, Cherrie?” he asked, and she fought not to let him or Belinda see the shiver that rocked through her at the sound of her name on his lips. In that voice.
“No, thank you.” She shook her head and reached for a smile. But came up short. “I’m good.”
“One glass of wine?” Belinda tilted her head, studying her. “This is a celebration. You know Daryl and I will make sure you get back to the campground safely.”
“No, really, I’m good. I plan on leaving on the early ride tomorrow, so I’m limiting myself tonight,” she lied. Even though it was a small fib, she still hated deceiving Belinda, who was like the aunt she’d never had. But Cherrie hated bringing up how her whole life had changed by one random visit to the doctor. Especially not here, at Rachel’s engagement party. And definitely not with Maddox within hearing distance. “I’m not going to risk not hitting the road for anything.”
“One more glass...” Belinda trailed off, squinting across the room. “Excuse me for a minute. My husband is demanding my presence.”
From the smile flirting with the other woman’s mouth, Cherrie didn’t think she minded being summoned. Snickering, Cherrie shook her head. And ignored the pang of loneliness, and perhaps envy, that vibrated in her chest.
“Here.” A refilled glass appeared at her elbow. Cherrie glanced up with a frown and met Maddox’s steady gaze. “It’s nonalcoholic wine.” Seriously? Her eyebrow winged high. Why would a dive bar serve nonalcoholic anything? A corner of his full mouth quirked up, but didn’t form a smile. And she should not be sitting here wondering what an uninhibited, full smile would look like on him. “Sometimes it’s easier to serve a different...option than convince somebody they need to be cut off. It’s the reason we have nonalcoholic beer, too,” he explained, answering her unspoken question.
“Well, thanks,” she said, picking up the drink and sipping. She hummed in pleasure at the sweet, fruity flavor. “Wow, this is good. You can’t even tell the difference.”
“That’s the point.” He tipped his head, and before she caught herself, she leaned backward on the stool, attempting to avoid the piercing intensity of that scrutiny. “Now you don’t have to make up any more excuses about why you’re not drinking. Because it is an excuse, isn’t it? A lie.”
Cherrie choked on the wine she’d been in the process of swallowing. “What?” she coughed.
He passed her a napkin, which she took and used to pat her mouth. “You lied to Belinda about why you didn’t want another drink.”
Irritation flashed inside her, and she glared at him. “I get you’re a bartender, and you probably take the whole customer’s therapist thing seriously, but you don’t know me.”
His mouth twitched again. “Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
“You know what?” Cherrie fumed, propping her elbows on the bar and leaning forward. He might be beautiful, but he was also intrusive and annoying as hell. And she had zero problems telling him so. “I don’t give a—”
Maddox reached out and traced a long, blunt-tipped finger over the edges of the silver lotus atop her black leather cuff. “This is beautiful,” he murmured, interrupting her imminent tirade. And not just because he’d complimented the piece that she’d designed and created herself. But also because as crazy as it seemed, that light caress stroked over the bared skin of her arms and shoulders, between her breasts. A pulsing ache took up residence low in her stomach, and she battled the urge to squirm on the stool.
“Handmade?” he asked.
“Yes,” she rasped. Then cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. It’s one of mine.”
Recognition flickered in his eyes. “You’re the jewelry artist that Daryl mentioned. He said you come for the motorcycle rally every year and sell your jewelry from their shop.”
She nodded. “Guilty.”
For the last thirteen years she’d been coming to this quaint and gorgeous Massachusetts town famous for its annual ride and rally. The first eight years had been with her parents, and when they’d retired to Arizona to escape Chicago winters, Cherrie had continued coming to this oasis in the southern Berkshires on her own. She loved it here.
Not just because of the towering trees, whose lush, green leaves provided beauty and shade. Not just because of the glorious mountains that rose above the town, beckoning her to jump on her Busa
