“Um…” he said, searching around valiantly inside his head for something to distract them that wasn’t anything too deep. “What about distinguishing marks?”

She blinked at him. Grady blinked back. Yeah…that was dumbass. He could have asked her favorite color or her favorite ice cream flavor or, hell, the name of her grade school art teacher. But his brain had given him distinguishing marks.

Like he was some kind of perv. Or filling out a fucking police report.

“I…have a birthmark.”

Oh fuck. No, no, no. He did not need to know this. But it was too late. Why? Why had he asked that? Now he knew she had a birthmark, he couldn’t unknow it. And all he could think about was what and where. And how a boyfriend would know those things.

He cleared his throat. “Where?”

“My right upper thigh.”

Her hand traveled up her leg and pointed at the spot. Grady told himself not to look; it wasn’t as if he could see through her jeans. But he looked, zeroing in on her finger resting on her inner thigh about an inch from where it met her groin.

Good Christ.

He didn’t know if he was imagining it, but he swore he could hear the rough exhalation of air from her mouth and smell the intoxicating aroma of bourbon on her breath.

“It’s light brown, about the size of a nickel, shaped a bit like Texas.”

Grady let out a strangled laugh. Texas? Fuck. Now he really wanted to see it. But instead of going there, he nodded and said, “Check. Texas birthmark, right upper thigh.”

“What about you?” she asked as her hand returned to her knee.

He dragged his gaze back to her face. “I have a tattoo on my left shoulder blade.”

“What is it?”

“An American eagle with This We’ll Defend underneath.”

“Oooh. Can I see?”

Grady, who had barely yanked himself back from the tantalizing knowledge of that birthmark, sat back a little at her request. Now that he hadn’t expected. Her eyes glowed with interest not of a sexual nature, but that didn’t stop his heart or his dick from taking a sudden leap.

Maybe it was the bourbon loosening his inhibitions, because somehow he’d gone from keeping Suzanne St. Michelle at arm’s length to practically cuddling up on a couch with her and playing drinking games. Drinking games that had led to this.

Her looking at him with those big blue eyes, wanting to see his tattoo. Him contemplating showing her. Contemplating stripping her out of those goddamn jeans to find her little map of Texas.

And Jesus if that didn’t sound all kinds of dirty.