I ask. In New York, Shelby would be hip-deep in men practically begging to make her scream until the early hours of the morning. I may have been absent from the Atlanta scene for some time, but I can’t imagine it’s that different here. She looks over her shoulder again at the door and I follow her gaze. I’ve noticed her do this a few times. Zones out, looks over her shoulder like she’s expecting someone to walk through the door and rain on her parade. “It’s…complicated…” she says, choosing her words carefully. Her teeth catch her bottom lip and she finally takes her eyes off the door. “What about you? What’s a bar owner doing up here? Don’t you have guests?” “It’s complicated,” I say, mimicking her response. She laughs, throwing her head back. “Try me.” Her body is so close to mine, the cut-outs in her dress teasing. The heat between us is so intense that she’s not even shivering in the brisk winter chill. Damn, how much I wish I could rip that dress off right here.
