The Road to Rose Bend, Naima Simone [jenna bush book club .TXT] 📗

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, blue eyes so bright, so intense, so seeing, that she dipped her gaze to the strong column of his throat.

“If someone hasn’t told you on a daily basis—several times a day—why you’re special, then you need new friends, Cherrie.”

She closed her eyes, tried to block out his voice...tried to block out the yawning, empty hole that had opened up in her chest and threatened to swallow her whole. She felt, rather than saw, his head lower. Cool, silken strands of hair grazed the corner of her mouth, her cheek.

“Should I tell you?” he asked, his breath stirring her curls, whispering over her skin. Not waiting for her answer, he continued, “I’ve just met you tonight, and already I can tell you’re creative as hell, gifted. You’re kind, even loving. Because Daryl and Belinda wouldn’t put up with you if you weren’t, much less invite you to an event as important as their daughter’s engagement party. They wanted you here with them as the person they love most starts a new phase in her life. I know you take no shit, which is a wonderful thing, because someone would have to be willing to take their lives—or their balls—in their hands if they dared disrespect you.”

She snickered, and his low rumble of a laugh vibrated through her.

“You’re stunning,” he said softly, after their laughter ebbed. “Not beautiful or lovely. Those words are too anemic to describe the fire that damn near burns off you. They can’t capture the soulfulness of your eyes, the haughtiness of those cheekbones or the sin of that mouth. Those gorgeous tattoos tell me you’re bold, not afraid to push a limit. And these curves...” He huffed out a gust of air, his hold on her momentarily tightening, and she sucked in a breath. A beat passed between them filled by the wail of the guitar and croon of the lead singer’s voice and the abraded rhythm of his breath.

Her? She’d stopped breathing when he’d commented on her soulful eyes.

“These curves threaten to make a grown man weep in gratefulness that you’re not one of those women who commit the unforgivable act of covering them up. And that tells me you’re confident, that you own who you are. And that, Cherrie Moore, is sexy as hell.”

Damn.

At some point during his listing of her attributes, she’d lifted her head, stared at him. Her thunderous heartbeat filled her ears, echoing like waves crashing against a shore. Desire lit his eyes, and the sight of it threw kindling on already snapping flames. How long had it been since she’d experienced true, uncomplicated need?

Too long.

There’s nothing uncomplicated or simple about this man.

Cherrie hushed the pushy, know-it-all voice that dared to interfere. As bold as he’d called her, that might be true in one area of her life—her art, whether it was the silver she designed, or the pieces inked on her body. But when it came to her relationships... She’d always been safe.

No.

Scared.

She loved her parents—God, she loved them. But Terrel and Gladys Moore shared a special connection that had always made Cherrie feel like a third wheel on a date. Her father was one of those lucky people who’d found love twice in this lifetime. He’d worshipped Cherrie’s mother, and when she died just before Cherrie turned ten, he’d been a ghost, a shade of the laughing, robust man he’d been. Until Gladys came along. She’d breathed life into him again.

Growing up and witnessing that kind of love had ignited a hunger