Sweet Talking Man. Liz Talley

but this isn’t about futures or well wishes. You just need a drink, hon.”

      “No shit.”

      She didn’t bothering sipping. Tonight called for a belt.

      “Whoa. Slow down there, soldier.” Leif leaned back, his shoulder brushing hers.

      Abigail did as he bid and took a demure sip. “Why?”

      “What?”

      “Why are you being nice to me? You don’t know me.”

      He tilted his head. The move made him cuter. “Best way to get to know someone is over a good Scotch.”

      “But why would—”

      He pressed his finger against her lips. “Shh...sometimes it’s enough to be still. Just relax.”

      It was the second time he’d said that to her, and she let the words sink in. She leaned against the swing, folding in on herself like a bouncy castle deflating after a kiddie birthday party. Sweet comfort.

      Leif kicked the swing into motion. The clunk of the bottle hitting the porch was the last sound she heard before the night tucked them into quiet contemplation.

      After several minutes, Abigail released a sigh.

      “Ah, there you go. A good Scotch cures a lot of things.”

      “Tonight sucked.”

      “I know. Feels like getting sideswiped,” he said, his voice soft.

      “Yeah, sideswiped,” she breathed, looking out into the inky darkness as if it could provide a solution to Cal showing up...a solution to her wanting to rest her head on Leif’s shoulder. “You know, you’re a decent guy for a lothario.”

      “Lothario?”

      “I’m sorry. That’s not fair. Just because women hurl themselves at you...”

      He stuck a finger to his cheek. “It’s the dimple.”

      She felt her lips twitch before she could stop herself. “Magic, huh?”

      His eyes grew flirty. “Is it working on you?”

      Inside, she stilled much like the darkness around them. Should she laugh it off or tell him the truth? Roll the dice or hold her cards close? “Eh, kind of.”

      “Perfect.”

      He settled back, kicking them into motion again, seeming content to do nothing more than sit beside her, sip liquor and enjoy the intimacy of not having to say a thing.

      An owl hooted and the squeak of the swing created a soothing lullaby as the warm liquor made Abigail feel languid and heavy. After they’d been sitting there for about a quarter of an hour, Abigail stopped the swing. “I should go inside.”

      “It’s late,” he agreed, rising and extending a hand. She took it, almost sighing at the warmth of his skin against her cold hand. God help her, but she wanted to feel his arms around her, to give him what she’d denied Cal earlier.

      “Thank you,” she said.

      His eyes stayed soft as he whispered, “That’s what neighbors are for.”

      “Neighbors?”

      “And friends.”

      “Oh.” She glanced away, trying not to feel crushing disappointment. Stupid woman. Leif had been doing what he did best—charming anything in a skirt. Not that she wore a skirt. Too cold for that. But he probably flirted with grocery store cashiers, phlebotomists and anyone he came in contact with—including lonely, pathetic neighbors.

      “And women I want to kiss.”

      Abigail blinked. “You want to kiss me?”

      He brought her hand to his mouth, brushing a kiss on the back of it. His whiskey breath fanned her skin, causing heat to shimmer in her stomach. “Another time, pretty Abigail.”

      Abigail stared at the hand he released before snapping out of the trance he’d put her in. “Oh.”

      “Night.”

      “Good night, Leif. Thank you.”

      He picked up the bottle and lifted a hand as he walked down the steps. “My pleasure.”

      Then he left her with a smile...and a hunger she knew would keep her awake long into the night.