I averted my gaze when it caught his and expected he would do the same. He didn’t. Instead, his emerald eyes studied my face as though the blackness I was cloaked in made me opaque and impossible to see through. Shifting uncomfortably in my stool, I turned around and tried to find anything else to focus on.

As I counted whiskey bottles lined up on the shelves of the bar, I felt his presence a few yards behind me. My ears struggled to home in on his voice, and my eyes begged to take a peek. But as my body staged a mutiny against reason, I clenched my fist, desperate not to let it win. The upbeat jazz performers letting loose on the stage forced my toes to tap in my boots and my tongue to click with the beat.

Thanking the bartender for yet another shot, I threw it back and realized why The Gallery sucked down whiskey like it was oxygen—nerves. There was no denying I was on edge, so much so that I nearly jumped when I realized that the Peach had slid onto the stool next to me. His incredulous look told me he’d noticed my skittishness. Instead of saying anything, he held my gaze for a moment before returning his attention to the bartender, who smiled at him in a way he’d never smiled at me.

Transfixed by his long fingers tapping on the mahogany of the bar, I signaled for another drink knowing it would push me over the edge from hazy buoyancy to heavily drunk, a state I had no reservations about visiting. I needed the Peach to go back to where he’d come from, either across the room or to another state. The lower my inhibitions dropped, the farther away I needed him to be. He was as intoxicating as the alcohol, and I didn’t trust myself under his influence. I was about to get up and leave the bar without my drink when I heard his voice for the first time.

“Do you dance?” he asked, a slight southern drawl apparent in his warm voice. I feared his languid intonation would be the end of me, deadlier than Capone’s choppers.

“Not with men,” I replied instinctively, surprised by the indulgent grin he gave me in return.

“I wasn’t asking,” he said simply, taking a sip of his whiskey as he appraised me with curious jade-green eyes.

“Like hell you weren’t,” I shot back, irritated by the laugh that escaped his perfect lips.

“I wasn’t,” the Peach assured me so sincerely that I believed it, even though I didn’t want to. “You have good rhythm. I was wondering if you perform here.”