Nothing would come of it, he knew. Nothing could ever come of it, and he didn’t want it to. But if they dated for a while and then split up, he could justify having slept with her.
And he wouldn’t sleep with her again, that was a promise.
Even if the memory of kissing her, touching her soft skin, heated his blood and tightened his trousers across his groin.
He’d known Emma all his life, but this was the first time he’d been distracted by her as a woman. The first time he’d noticed how sexy and attractive she was.
Physically, she was the opposite of Suzanne in every way. Where Suzanne had an hourglass figure, with full breasts and wide hips, Emma was proportionally well-balanced. Small, but still shapely.
Her hair was more strawberry-blond than peroxide-blond; her look more natural than painted on; her clothes stylish but comfortable, rather than skin-tight and meant to attract attention.
She certainly had succeeded at catching his attention, and not a day went by that he didn’t regret it.
“So?” He took a swig of coffee to wash down the last of his pie, taking note that Emma had yet to touch hers. “What do you say?”
What could she say? What should she say?
This had to be the most bizarre date invitation she’d ever received. And if it were coming from anyone other than Mitch, she’d have probably laughed the poor guy out of the restaurant.
But it was Mitch, which left her torn.
Did she accept because her feminine heart had dreamed of this moment a million times? Or did she turn him down because she suspected the offer stemmed more from guilt than an actual interest in seeing her socially?
Wrapping her fingers around the mug of still-warm coffee in front of her, she lifted it to her mouth and took a sip, buying herself a little more time.
But in the end, she knew what her decision would be. Knew that her heart and her sense of possibility would drive her to at least see where things could lead.
Maybe it would lead only to a couple of dates, dinner or a movie. Or maybe it would lead to more—to Mitch realizing he’d never belonged with Suzanne, but with a woman more like Emma. If she was lucky, with Emma herself.
The sensible side of her brain knew it was too much to hope for, but she was willing to take a chance. It was a small one, after all, and if things did work out, the payoff would be big. Everything she’d ever dreamed of.
And if it didn’t, she was the only person who would ever know her wishes had been for more than a casual relationship. She was the only one who would be hurt.
Taking a deep breath, she returned the cup to its saucer, then lifted her eyes to his. “All right.”
“Good.” He shifted in the booth, digging his wallet out of his hip pocket, peeling off bills and dropping them onto the tabletop. Then he slid out and got to his feet. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
Without a backward glance, he stalked out of the diner, leaving her alone with her coffee and uneaten pie.
If she were smart, she told herself for the fiftieth time, she would have called Mitch up and told him to forget about tonight.
He hadn’t exactly acted like Prince Charming back at Rosie’s when he’d walked out on her. And he hadn’t asked her out tonight, so much as told her when to be ready. For that alone, he almost deserved to be stood up.
Yet here she was, poised in front of her full-length mirror, checking her appearance one last time before he arrived.
She’d already fixed a supper plate for Pop and warned him she would be gone for the evening. She had no idea where Mitch intended to take her, but she assumed dinner would be involved, so she hadn’t bothered eating herself.
Then she’d come upstairs and torn apart her closet in search of something decent to wear. Without a destination in mind, it made dressing difficult, but she’d finally settled on a denim skirt and pale-yellow peasant blouse.
Looking at her reflection now, she adjusted the gold chain at her neck and tucked back a few thin strands of hair that had slipped out of its clip.
Through the open bedroom window, she heard Mitch’s truck pull up to the house and her father’s greeting as Mitch got out, slamming the door behind him.
She took a deep breath, straightened the hem of her top, then slid her feet into the black mules she’d pulled out of her closet earlier. Regardless of the butterflies tap-dancing through her belly, she’d agreed to go out with him. Beneath the layers of nerves that had her all but jumping out of her skin, she was even looking forward to it.
“Emma, honey,” her father shouted up the stairs. “Mitch is here.”
As though she wasn’t already keenly aware of his presence. Her arms had broken out in gooseflesh the minute he’d turned into the drive.
“Coming,” she called, when she found her voice.
He was waiting just inside the kitchen, near the front door. His black Stetson was in his hand rather than on his head, tapping against the side of his denim-clad thigh.
“Hi,” she said when his gaze lifted to hers.
“Hi.” He scanned her from head to toe, then met her eyes again. “You look nice.”
As compliments went, it wasn’t the best she’d ever received, but knowing that Mitch didn’t dole them out very often to anyone, she decided to accept.
“Thank you. You, too.”
He was dressed in jeans and a plaid button-down shirt, the same as usual, but he always looked good to her, so the compliment still fit.
“Ready to go?”
She nodded, grabbing a light jacket from the coatrack beside the door.
“You two have a good time,” her father called out from his seat at the kitchen table. He waved them off, barely sparing them a second glance as he dug into his dinner.
Mitch closed the door behind them, then walked her to the passenger side of his truck and helped her climb in.
“So, where are we going?” she asked once he was behind the wheel and they were headed down the long dirt driveway to the main road.
“You’ll see.”
She raised an eyebrow at his less than enlightening answer, but he kept his eyes on the road and couldn’t see the look of consternation she shot him.
Ten minutes later, they pulled into the parking lot of the Silver Spur, one of the most popular honky-tonks in Gabriel’s Crossing. Lights blinked on the roof and bright neon signs shone in the windows, advertising a dozen different brands of draft and bottled beer.
Emma had only been to the Spur a couple of times before and always with a group of friends because the bar tended to get rowdy on the weekends. But this was a weeknight, and even though it was a strange place to go for a first date, she was with Mitch, so she had nothing to worry about.
He came around to help her down from the truck, then held her hand as they walked into the bar. Loud country music blared, filling the early evening air and hitting them like an ocean wave when they pushed open the front door.
Men and women, most wearing cowboy hats of all sizes and colors, filled the wide, open room. Dancing, milling around, sitting at the tables and bar with longneck bottles of beer and bowls of peanuts in front of them.
Sawdust was scattered in clumps across the scarred wood floor, and antlers decorated the walls, along with a dartboard and assorted alcoholic beverage posters and signs. At the far end of the room, a live band played on a raised stage and a group of people—mostly made up of couples—line danced to the tune of a Texas two-step.
“So,