“Great.”
“See you.” Deidre hooked her arm in David’s and the two vanished into the crowd.
“Right.” She nudged her back close to the bar and watched as Georgia moved back and forth onstage. The woman had an easy confidence Leah admired.
A man jostled next to her at the bar. When she glanced in his direction, he grinned. “Hey. I’m Max.”
She moved back a step. “Hey.”
“You here by yourself, little lady?” He had to shout to be heard.
“No.”
He made an effort to look around her. “I don’t see anybody.”
She dug her fingernail into the silver label of her beer and ripped the paper. Dogs, cats, snakes, even birds she knew. In an animal, she read dangerous fear or childlike joy at a glance, but people, well, Philip had proven that she didn’t understand the warning signs. A fight-or-flight impulse tightened her chest. She barely recognized her voice when she heard it. “I’m waiting for Alex Morgan.”
Brown eyes narrowed and then widened slightly. “You’re dating that ass?”
The mention of Alex’s name had several other people shifting their attention to her. So Alex wasn’t popular. Interesting. Still, he’d been nice to her, and that fostered an odd kind of loyalty. She sipped her beer. “I only see one ass.”
The man’s gaze narrowed, but instead of moving toward her, he took a step back, held up a hand in surrender, and melted into the crowd.
As much as Leah would like to think she was a tough customer, small-boned, five foot two and 105 pounds soaking wet, her size didn’t scare away much. He hadn’t bolted because of her big, bad scary self.
The wall of energy behind her, vibrating and snapping close, had scared him off. Tightening her grip on her beer, she turned to find Alex Morgan standing behind her.
A Saturday night and he wore a dark suit, a white shirt, and a narrow red tie twisted in a Windsor knot. Ink-black hair cut short and brushed off his face stressed a long, narrow face marked with lines around the eyes and mouth. She guessed he’d earned those lines by frowning, not smiling.
“Was he giving you a problem?” Alex’s gaze darted past her toward Max before settling back on her.
The tension cranked up a notch. Max was an annoyance. Alex was dangerous. He’d heard the comment, noticed the stares but had not reacted. “He was trying to make conversation.”
A muscle in his jaw clenched, released. He shifted his attention away from Max, dismissing him as a non-threat. “I see KC got you a beer.” He had to shout over the music.
“He did. Thank you.” The music pulsed, making conversation difficult. She guessed she’d been in the bar ten minutes, which put the time at about ten. How long did a date last before it ended?
“Can I get you another beer?”
“No. Just got started on this one.” A glance toward the bar found KC twisting the top off a beer bottle and pushing it Alex’s way. He scooped up the beer but didn’t drink.
Alex turned toward the stage as Georgia finished her song. The crowd cheered, and he raised a beer bottle to her when she looked in his direction. She winked. The band settled into a softer, slower song.
“She’s good,” Leah said. Maybe talk would burst the anxiety bubble. “Has she always sung?”
“Since she could talk. But she’s only been singing in public for a couple of years.” He sipped his beer and faced her. “You look pale. Are you okay?”
Lying hadn’t always come as naturally as it did now. “I’m fine.”
His blue-steel gaze studied her. “You look like you want to bolt.”
Normally, a smile and a few fibs deflated questions and concerns. “I spend my days with barking dogs and hissing cats. Haven’t been out in a while.”
“There’s a restaurant across the street. Much quieter and less crowded. We’ll go there.”
It wasn’t a suggestion but a direction. She wasn’t sure what scared her more: the pulsing beat of this crowd or being alone with him. The frying pan or the fire?
New Year’s resolutions had prompted so many changes in the last couple of weeks. Get out. Be a part of humanity. It had been an easy enough promise to make on New Year’s, after she’d finished her second glass of champagne, as she’d watched the televised ball in Times Square drop. “Sure. Sounds good. Let me get my coat.” She set her beer on the bar and grabbed her coat. He took it from her and held it out. Not controlling but the move of a gentleman, she reminded herself.
A smile flicking the edges of her lips, she turned and lowered her arms into the coat. He raised the coat up to her neck, his fingertips barely brushing the back of her hair. The physical touch constricted her lungs.
Smiling, always smiling, she turned and faced Alex.
A dark brow arched. “You okay?”
“Great.”
She moved out toward the door, threading her body around the growing crowd. He trailed close behind, and she caught several angry gazes directed at Alex and her. Outside, the snap of cold air redirected her attention from worry. “Where to?”
“Right across the street.” He moved beside her and gently placed his hand in the small of her back, guiding her. Gently. Not all touch equaled pain. No worries.
The restaurant specialized in barbecue and was outfitted with clean but dinged-up booths. The floor had once been a black-and-white tile, but years of wear and tear had worn away the crisp lines, leaving it a shadowy blend of dark and light. Behind the counter, a hot grill butted against the wall where a tall man wearing a white apron over a white shirt ladled barbecue sauce on dozens of sizzling chicken wings and thighs. The sweet, spicy scents were welcoming.
They settled in a seat by the front window and she shrugged off her jacket, refusing to be nervous. This was a date. Nothing more. Dates were fun. And she wasn’t a crazy woman. She could go on a date with a guy. She could.
Alex ordered a couple more beers and reached for the laminated menus stuck between the napkin holder and the salt-and-pepper shakers. “Place might not look like much, but the barbecue is great.” He unfolded his menu. “Vets eat meat, don’t they?”
“I do. Love barbecue.” She wouldn’t eat much, but she could push the food around and make a show of it. Their beers arrived, and he asked if he could place their order. She agreed, but instantly second-guessed herself, wondering if giving him any kind of control was a smart thing.
She sipped her beer and realized she hadn’t eaten much that day. She’d worked late and her appetite was off due to nerves and fatigue. When the waiter set biscuits on the table, she took one and broke off a piece.
“Rick says you’re a popular vet with dogs.”
“I love what I do, so it’s easy.” She took a sip of beer. “He says you’re a great agent.”
Alex traced the label on his bottle. “He didn’t say that.”
“Maybe not in so many words. But my receptionist got him talking the last time he was in, and she said he had nice things to say about you.”
He studied the menu. “So you and your receptionist were talking about me?”
Color rushed to her cheeks. “I suppose we were. We take care of several of the police canines, and we generally talk about them and their families.”
He closed the menu and looked up. “Good to know. So you must have a dog?”
“No. No dogs for me. I work long hours. Maybe one day.” Since Philip, she’d feared loving anything too much in case it would be taken away.
“I picture you with a houseful of cats and dogs. The homespun type.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Not at all. Making an observation.”
Homespun jabbed, conjuring rocking chairs, shawls, and, well, old. “You’re not the animal type.”
“I like Tracker. But I’m not a dog or a cat guy. I’m on the go too much.”
“Which begs the question, why did you ask me out?”
He sat back in the booth and tugged his coat jacket in place. “You’re different. Interesting.”
“In a homespun sort of way?”
“In a multilayered sort of way.”
She sensed he had lots of questions, but there would be no peeking behind the curtain where she hid her secrets. “I vaccinate dogs and cats all day. Most interesting thing I’ve done lately is joining a running group.”