Free I Love You by Brandy Wilson Page B

was dead was the icing on life’s poop cupcake.
    The biker bar wouldn’t be a first choice to seek help. The line of motorcycles out front didn’t inspire confidence, and she debated about going in. If there had been other neon OPEN signs glowing anywhere nearby in the midnight darkness, she would have skipped the bar altogether. Since there appeared to be no other choice, Dace took a deep breath, let it out slow, and pulled open the door.
    The air inside was heavy with smoke, the yeasty scent of cheap beer, and the noisy live band was making her ears bleed. She was tempted to fan her hand in front of her face, but didn’t want to draw any more attention than necessary. The bar was on the far side of the room, tucked behind the pool tables. Behind it was a tall muscular man, dressed in a T-shirt promoting the virtues of cold beer and warm women. Dark hair well past the need of a trim was raked back from his face, and despite the dim bar, she could see intelligence in his eyes and the cool façade of his smile. He looked competent and scary at the same time. Even so, he seemed the safest bet to ask for help.
    At the bar, she refused to shift her gaze around the room and eyeball the other patrons, even though she sensed their eyes on her. To her surprise, the tall guy stepped forward and met her at the bar, dark chocolate brow raised in silent inquiry.
    At first, he wasn’t inclined to be cooperative, but she persisted. It wasn’t in her nature to give up, and she didn’t intend to start now.
    The cell phone he eventually dug from his pocket and handed across was warm, and she felt a tingle in her hand, thinking about where it had been and how the metal had become heated. The same warmth was in his fingertips as he handed her the bottle of water, and she had a weird impulse to reach out and touch his hand.
    She couldn’t help it; she stuttered as she gave her name without the professional title tacked on in front of it. Obviously, she wasn’t ashamed of her career or all the hard work it took to get where she was, but somehow it didn’t seem appropriate to announce herself as a doctor in the middle of a bar. She didn’t need bikers to start making smart-ass remarks about her giving them a free checkup.
    After settling on a stool, she sneaked peeks at the guy behind the bar. Tate— hmm, nice name, unique —was a fine distraction until the tow truck arrived. His long legs ate up the distance behind the bar as he moved back and forth, filling orders and making change with swift, efficient motions. Prominent shoulder muscles rippled through the T-shirt and those ripped jeans did sinful things for his hard ass. Even though Dace examined male bodies every day, none were as ripped and hard-bodied as Tate. Wow, with a view like this, what a way to kill time.
    She got the impression he missed nothing that went on in the bar, even though she never caught him openly watching anyone. The realization gradually slid over her that she was one of the things he was keeping an eye on, and she relaxed, little by little.
    Eventually she saw the revolving yellow lights of the tow truck reflected in the mirror behind the bar. Finally. Jesus… Looking at her watch, she was surprised to notice only twenty minutes had passed since the call was placed for a pickup.
    As she slid off the stool, she was surprised to see Tate have a quick word with the other bartender, and flip up the serving counter. He stepped through the gap, dropped it back in place behind him, and moved to her side. Eyebrows raised, she looked up at him, a question in her eyes.
    He mouthed something, but the band had cranked up their volume after the last song, and she couldn’t hear a damn thing. She settled for shrugging and a half smile as she cupped her hand behind her ear. To her surprise, he reached his hand out, palm up.
    Tate grinned at her—a warm intimate smile that she suspected had dropped a lot of panties—and grabbed her hand. He motioned with his head,