Taking the Heat. Victoria Dahl

I always ask weird questions like that. It’s a problem.”

      “How is it a problem?”

      “Well, it’s a little awkward, isn’t it? That’s my flirting technique. Complete awkwardness. Look, it’s happening right now. Are you entranced?”

      “I kind of am,” he said, smiling at her until she smiled back. “If awkwardness is your flirting technique, then you’re clearly into me right now.”

      She threw back her head and laughed. “Clearly. But isn’t everyone into you?”

      He was the one who drew back this time. “What?”

      She watched him as she sipped from her drink, her eyes still sparkling with laughter. Her gaze dipped down his body when she set her glass on the table. “Come on. Look at you. You’re so damn hot.”

      “I am?” he asked, feeling his own cheeks get warm.

      “Yes, with your little beard and your shoulders and all this.” She waved her hand up and down, while Gabe touched his beard in confusion. “Never mind,” Veronica said. “I’m drunk. Ignore me.”

      “Maybe you shouldn’t—” But before he could finish his sentence, she downed the rest of the drink.

      “No, I hardly ever get drunk. I want to get drunk. I want to have fun for once.”

      “You look like you’ve had plenty of fun in your life.”

      “Ha! You’re wrong about that.”

      “Come on. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself after all the excitement of the big city. But you can have fun here, too.”

      “Oh, sure,” she huffed out on a laugh.

      He bristled a little, used to hearing this kind of shit from his oldest friends. “It’s not New York, but it’s a good place. Aren’t you having fun right now?”

      She nodded and leaned closer. Gabe tried very hard not to glance down her dress to the slight rise of her breasts, if only because her gaze was locked on his face. “Gabe MacKenzie,” she said in a loud whisper, “you’re beautiful.”

      He’d been flattered by her attention, but with those words he realized she was just very, very drunk. Her bright smile was gorgeous, but her eyes had gotten a little hazy. “Okay,” he said, “you’re cut off. And I think I’d better walk you home.”

      She rolled her eyes. “I lived in Brooklyn. I can handle myself in Wyoming. And walking won’t be a problem. I’ve got the legs of a Russian weight lifter.” She slapped her bare thighs.

      “That is not what I said.”

      “What did you say?” she teased.

      “I said they were strong. Muscled. You look like you run or bike or—”

      Her groan cut him off as she dropped her head to her hands. “I was going for cute tonight. Just cute. Why can’t I even pull that off?”

      “Are you kidding? You’re just fishing for compliments now. You’re really cute. The definition of cute. But your legs...your legs are sexy.”

      She raised her head, her eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Are you making fun of me?”

      “Making fun? You really aren’t very good at this flirting thing, are you?”

      “No. But a guy in New York once called me corn-fed, then acted like it was a compliment.”

      “I’m not a guy in New York.”

      “You used to be!” she said, poking him in the chest as though she’d caught him in a lie.

      “Okay, but I never felt at home there. I’m a country boy at heart. New York is just...where I was born.” Not quite true, but that was what it felt like. A place his family lived. A place he loved from afar and visited occasionally.

      Gabe caught sight of the waitress approaching with another drink for Veronica and he shook his head. The woman shrugged and headed back toward the bar.

      “I’m sorry,” Veronica said. “You called my legs sexy and I made it weird.” She snagged his beer before he could grab it. “This is why I don’t date. Look at me.”

      She got one swig before Gabe took it back and finished it off. “Come on, Dear Veronica, let’s go.”

      Even though she collapsed onto the table with laughter, she eventually nodded. “Okay. Let’s go to my place.”

      “I didn’t mean...”

      “Yeah, believe me, I know.” Veronica pushed to her feet. “See? Steady as a tree.”

      In fact, she was swaying a little. If she was a tree, she was more a willow than an oak. “How many of these did you have?” he asked.

      “One before the show. One during. Then...two more?”

      “In the space of an hour?” Gabe reevaluated his options. “How far away do you live?”

      “Only three blocks away. I’m centrally located.” That set off a bout of giggling that had Gabe smiling as he wrapped her arm around his.

      “Are you okay in those heels?”

      “Sure. I had to learn to walk in them in New York. You know how it is. Spike heels everywhere. I bet you loved that, didn’t you? Men love that.”

      He looked down at her as he opened the door of the bar. She was smiling as she stepped into the night.

      “I’m not sure how to answer that,” he finally said.

      “Just be honest. I write an advice column. I know what guys like. You can’t scare me.”

      “Okay, then. Women’s legs look amazing in heels. Your legs look amazing in heels. But nothing beats the sight of a woman in hiking boots on the trail ahead. I could watch that for hours.”

      “And have?”

      “Only with permission, of course.”

      She bumped him with her shoulder as they walked. “Does that mean you’re an ass man, Gabe MacKenzie?”

      “I—” he ran through all the possible responses in his head and decided discretion was the better part of ass valor “—am not going to answer that.”

      “You can tell me. Feel free to spill all your kinks. You wouldn’t believe what I’ve heard.”

      “I’m sure I wouldn’t.” He looked around. “Are we even walking in the right direction? Where do you live?”

      “Oh, shit,” she muttered, then spun him around. “It’s this way. I’m sorry. I haven’t been this tipsy in a really long time.”

      He thought she was way past tipsy, but damned if it wasn’t adorable on her. “So how does one become a professional advice columnist?”

      “Overbearing father,” she muttered, then shook her head. “I was a copy editor, but I also helped out with an advice column at the Village Voice. Screening letters, proofing the column, that sort of thing. When I told my dad I was moving back to Jackson, I suppose he wanted to help. He’s friends with the owner of the Jackson paper, and Dad inflated my experience a little. So here I am. A fraud who gives advice.”

      “Well, you’re great at it, so how could you be a fraud?”

      “You’d be surprised.”

      “Does someone else write the column for you?”

      She laughed, bumping into him again, her thigh rubbing against his and reminding him of how naked her legs were. “No,” she said. “I write it all by myself. That I can do, at least.”

      “Which was your favorite column to write?”

      “Hmm.”