Slow Dance at Rose Bend

and ride those trails. Not just because she was surrounded by good people and better friends.
All of those were certainly true, but they weren’t the main reasons joy filled her at the beginning of every July.
Home.
She traveled extensively for a living, attending conferences, shows and industry competitions, and yet she never felt as at home as she did when in Rose Bend.
Especially now.
Not gonna go there.
“I’ve seen your work in their shop.” He smoothed a fingertip over the silver petals again, and she swallowed a whimper. His gaze lifted from the cuff to her eyes. All that intensity crashed into her, leaving her slightly weaving on the chair. “You’re gifted.”
Professors at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, where she’d attended the jewelry design program, had praised her technique and creativity. Artisans with some of the leading jewelry companies in the industry had complimented her craftsmanship and design. Countless clients had gushed over the beauty of her pieces.
And yet none of that acclaim had caused her throat to tighten around a dense ball of emotion. None had rendered her speechless. Or set her heart racing like an engine souped-up on nitrous oxide. In other words...fast.
“A lotus. A gorgeous flower that will only grow in mud.” He cocked his head. “Have you bloomed in the dirt, Cherrie?”
Shock and pain thrust a hard gust of breath from her lungs.
“Does this Yoda shit usually work?” she sneered, hiding her trembling hands under the lip of the bar. “I hate to break it to you, but the zen bartender schtick is an epic fail for me.”
“And yet you can’t decide whether you want to junk-punch me or put your mouth on me.”
What the fuck?
Who the hell was this guy? And who said that to a woman he’d met five minutes ago? Jesus, she’d gone from lust, to curiosity, to gratefulness to seething mad in the space of as many minutes.
Yes, he was hot sex on a platter. A ginger platter. But he was still infuriating.
“I. Don’t. Like. You,” she ground out.
His lips didn’t quirk. No, they curled upward. And didn’t stop until a blinding, breath-stealing smile curved his mouth. Now she knew what it looked like.
Be careful what you wish for.
“Don’t go anywhere just yet, Cherrie Moore. We’re not finished with each other.”
Don’t go anywhere? Was that an order? Who was he to dictate her movements? And why did every word that escaped him sound so damn provocative?
She glared after his big, retreating body as he strode to the end of the bar toward a trio of women who grinned so wide, Cherrie could count all their teeth. Oh, great. She sighed. So starts the bitchy portion of the evening, and it was not a good look on her.
Picking up her glass, she sipped wine and spun around to scan the crowded bar. She should stroll away to investigate the outcome of the fast and furious pool game. Or go on over and tease Daryl. Or maybe even flirt with a couple of the guys who’d hit on her when she’d first arrived at the party.
If she had sense, she’d get up and do any one of those options. Instead, she remained planted on the barstool where she could catch the low rumble of Maddox’s voice behind her. The low rumble that had yearning and a bright, throbbing lust pulsing through her veins like a molten heartbeat.
He might be the most irritating male she’d come in contact with in a long time, but no other man had incited an...excitement that reminded her she was more than a medication regimen or a diet or a flawed mirage of who someone wanted her to be.
For the first time in so long she felt...seen. Whole.
Normal.
And that feeling was as intoxicating as the top-shelf alcohol behind the bar.
The next hour flew by with toasts to the engaged couple, more laughter and even more music from the really great rock band playing cover songs from an elevated platform. She chuckled as Daryl dipped Belinda, bending over her and smacking a kiss to her grinning mouth.
Just then, a large hand appeared in front of Cherrie.
She didn’t even need to study the sprawl of tattoos that climbed the wrist to identify who that palm and those long, nicked but elegant fingers belonged to.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” she muttered. But ruined the disgruntled display by sliding her hand over his. Damn rebellious limbs. Just seemed to have minds of their own.
His fingers closed over hers, and with a gentle tug, he drew her to her feet. She should resist. Tell him she wasn’t much of a dancer—which was true. Inform him that this whole mysterious, gorgeous stranger act wasn’t doing it for her—which was untrue.
But as he guided her among the other people swaying to an ’80s rock ballad that assured her all roses have thorns, she quietly entered his embrace, her arms loosely looping around his neck. His hands cupped her hips, and she sank her teeth into her bottom lip, trapping the moan before it could escape. Her hips had never been small, even after the twenty pounds she’d recently dropped. Her ex had lamented—loudly—that she didn’t try hard enough to be slimmer, and it hadn’t been until she’d started taking better care of herself that she’d begun to appreciate and even love her size sixteen body. But it’d been years—three to be exact—since a man had cradled those abundant curves as if he appreciated them, too.
And from the way those blunt fingertips pressed into her flesh, exerting delicious pressure that sent a bolt of liquid heat straight for her core, she could pretend he might even enjoy touching her.
“Even the owner can take a fifteen-minute break,” he said in her ear, belatedly answering her question.
“To dance with a customer?” she shot back. “Are you usually this inappropriate with all your customers? Or did I just win the Get in My Business Lottery?”
“I’m making an exception.”
“Really?” Skepticism dripped from her tone. “And what makes me so special?”
He studied her,