The Road to Rose Bend by Naima Simone (best book club books of all time txt) 📕

“Well, thanks,” she said, picking up the drink and sipping. She hummed in pleasure at the sweet, fruity flavor. “Wow, this is good. You can’t even tell the difference.”

“That’s the point.” He tipped his head, and before she caught herself, she leaned backward on the stool, attempting to avoid the piercing intensity of that scrutiny. “Now you don’t have to make up any more excuses about why you’re not drinking. Because it is an excuse, isn’t it? A lie.”

Cherrie choked on the wine she’d been in the process of swallowing. “What?” she coughed.

He passed her a napkin, which she took and used to pat her mouth. “You lied to Belinda about why you didn’t want another drink.”

Irritation flashed inside her, and she glared at him. “I get you’re a bartender, and you probably take the whole customer’s therapist thing seriously, but you don’t know me.”

His mouth twitched again. “Doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

“You know what?” Cherrie fumed, propping her elbows on the bar and leaning forward. He might be beautiful, but he was also intrusive and annoying as hell. And she had zero problems telling him so. “I don’t give a—”

Maddox reached out and traced a long, blunt-tipped finger over the edges of the silver lotus atop her black leather cuff. “This is beautiful,” he murmured, interrupting her imminent tirade. And not just because he’d complimented the piece that she’d designed and created herself. But also because as crazy as it seemed, that light caress stroked over the bared skin of her arms and shoulders, between her breasts. A pulsing ache took up residence low in her stomach, and she battled the urge to squirm on the stool.

“Handmade?” he asked.

“Yes,” she rasped. Then cleared her throat and tried again. “Yes. It’s one of mine.”

Recognition flickered in his eyes. “You’re the jewelry artist that Daryl mentioned. He said you come for the motorcycle rally every year and sell your jewelry from their shop.”

She nodded. “Guilty.”

For the last thirteen years she’d been coming to this quaint and gorgeous Massachusetts town famous for its annual ride and rally. The first eight years had been with her parents, and when they’d retired to Arizona to escape Chicago winters, Cherrie had continued coming to this oasis in the southern Berkshires on her own. She loved it here.

Not just because of the towering trees, whose lush, green leaves provided beauty and shade. Not just because of the glorious mountains that rose above the town, beckoning her to jump on her Busa and ride those trails. Not just because she was surrounded by good people and better friends.

All of those were certainly true, but they weren’t the main reasons joy filled her at the beginning of every July.

Home.

She traveled extensively for a living, attending conferences, shows and industry competitions, and yet she never felt as at home as she did when in Rose Bend.

Especially now.

Not gonna go there.

“I’ve seen your work in their shop.” He smoothed a fingertip over the silver petals again, and she swallowed a whimper. His gaze lifted from the cuff to her eyes. All that intensity crashed into her, leaving her slightly weaving on the chair. “You’re gifted.”

Professors at the Fashion Institute of Technology in New York, where she’d attended the jewelry design program, had praised her technique and creativity. Artisans with some of the leading jewelry companies in the industry had complimented her craftsmanship and design. Countless clients had gushed over the beauty of her pieces.

And yet none of that acclaim had caused her throat to tighten around a dense ball of emotion. None had rendered her speechless. Or set her heart racing like an engine souped-up on nitrous oxide. In other words...fast.

“A lotus. A gorgeous flower that will only grow in mud.” He cocked his head. “Have you bloomed in the dirt, Cherrie?”

Shock and pain thrust a hard gust of breath from her lungs.

“Does this Yoda shit usually work?” she sneered, hiding her trembling hands under the lip of the bar. “I hate to break it to you, but the zen bartender schtick is an epic fail for me.”

“And yet you can’t decide whether you want to junk-punch me or put your mouth on me.”

What the fuck?

Who the hell was this guy? And who said that to a woman he’d met five minutes ago? Jesus, she’d gone from lust, to curiosity, to gratefulness to seething mad in the space of as many minutes.

Yes, he was hot sex on a platter. A ginger platter. But he was still infuriating.

“I. Don’t. Like. You,” she ground out.

His lips didn’t quirk. No, they curled upward. And didn’t stop until a blinding, breath-stealing smile curved his mouth. Now she knew what it looked like.

Be careful what you wish for.

“Don’t go anywhere just yet, Cherrie Moore. We’re not finished with each other.”

Don’t go anywhere? Was that an order? Who was he to dictate her movements? And why did every word that escaped him sound so damn provocative?

She glared after his big, retreating body as he strode to the end of the bar toward a trio of women who grinned so wide, Cherrie could count all their teeth. Oh, great. She sighed. So starts the bitchy portion of the evening, and it was not a good look on her.

Picking up her glass, she sipped wine and spun around to scan the crowded bar. She should stroll away to investigate the outcome of the fast and furious pool game. Or go on over and tease Daryl. Or maybe even flirt with a couple of the guys who’d hit on her when she’d first arrived at the party.

If she had sense, she’d get up and do any one of those options. Instead, she remained planted on the barstool where she could catch the low rumble of Maddox’s voice behind her. The low rumble that had yearning and a bright, throbbing lust pulsing through her veins like a molten heartbeat.

He might be the most irritating male she’d come in contact with in a long time, but no other