“Ouch!” The guy places his hand over his heart dramatically, like I shot him in the chest with a 9mm. “Feisty. I like it.”
“Not in this lifetime, buddy.” I cross my arms over my chest with a snort. “You can move on.”
“You and me.” He points his shiny, manicured finger back and forth between us. “We’re happening.”
“No, we are not.” I extend my middle finger toward him. Not when your nails look better than mine.
“I think we are. Everyone has a price.” What the hell? Does he think I’m a prostitute?
“Are you delusional?”
“This is happening.”
“No, it’s not,” I snap in a singsong voice. “Can you please leave?”
“Sorry I’m late, babe. Got stuck in traffic,” a deep voice grumbles behind me. I’m afraid to glance back when a large hand rests on my shoulder because the skin under my dress suddenly feels warm and tingly.
Loser boy quickly glances at me before glaring up behind me like he’s viewing Ted Bundy in the flesh. Okay, maybe I’m watching too many A&E documentaries. “Sorry.” He clears his throat. “I thought you were here by yourself.” He tosses his hands up in the air in surrender before picking up his drink and hopping off the stool. “Have a nice evening.”
“Sorry. You looked like you needed a little help.” Ted Bundy takes the now vacant seat next to me. I swear, if he tells me to put the lotion in the basket, I’m out. “Just trying to save you from unsavory characters.”
“I had it handled, but thank you.” Afraid I might like what’s next to me because he smells like heaven, I still haven’t looked up from the bar to view the man’s face.
“I’ll leave you to your solitude then.” He motions to the bartender.
“So you’re into protection?” Really, Charlotte? What a dumb question.
I make the mistake of peeking up, just in time to catch his adorable smirk. I survey him for a moment. I have no choice because he’s incredibly handsome, and fit. Everything about him is enjoyable to ogle. His unruly, jet-black hair and his chiseled jaw; even the little scar on the bottom of his chin. Ted was handsome too.
My gaze skids to a dead stop when it meets his. His deep, earthy brown eyes framed by dark, thick lashes—lashes most women would kill for—draw me in. There’s something beyond the softness of those chocolate orbs, though. A sadness, maybe. A look that says he’s seen shit in his life and tries to hide it well. I know the look. The same darkness and pain appears in my own eyes when I look in the mirror every morning. Stop it, Charlotte. Don’t do this here. How long are you going to be like this?
This guy is gorgeous and intense, and I can’t seem to look away. I should be running in the other direction. Those dark eyes sparkle with tiny specks of golden stars as he surveys me. I could drown in them. I could drown in him and die a happy death. Inside, I’m feeling knocked off-kilter. Must be my low blood sugar.
“Hey, you okay?” He places his large hand on my arm causing goose bumps. “Kinda lost you for a second.”
My heart rate kicks up, and something warm inside me stirs. He’s lit a fire low in my belly, laced with pleasant, awakening tingles I haven’t felt in over two years. I’m squirming in my seat. God, I’m ridiculously horny tonight. Must be the draft from the short dress I’m wearing.
I have to remind myself I’m not looking for anything. “Fine, thanks.” He removes his hand, and my skin burns hot where he was touching me.
The bartender returns with my drink and a small bowl of pretzel mix. My sexy stranger orders a Fireball shot, and I chuckle, thinking he’s too old to be ordering a frat boy drink. Maybe he’s having a midlife crisis and likes drinking Red Hots in a bottle? He must have a night away from the wife and two-point-three kids, and he’s trying to relive his old college days.
“Something wrong with my drink choice?” His deep voice vibrates in his chest.
“I’m pretty sure it contains more propylene glycol than a gallon of antifreeze.” I guffaw.
“Tastes like heaven. Burns like hell.” He winks. “Besides, I don’t think you're one to judge my choice of drink.” He juts his chin toward the copper mug in front of me with a half of lime shell floating on top and a plastic stirring rod sticking out. “What’s in it anyway?”
I remove the stirrer and take a long sip of the bitter liquid, immediately making a sour face. “I’m not sure but…bleh.” I shove a pretzel in my mouth.
“What the hell are you drinking?” He cringes, making me chuckle.
“I’m not sure. My sister said it’s the bomb, so I ordered one.” I shrug.
“It can’t be that bad if it comes in a cute little kiddie cup.”
“Here.” I scowl and slide the mug toward him. “You try it then.”
Our fingers brush when he takes the mug from me, and tingles wash over my skin. The physical chemistry sizzling between us is scorching. He places his full, kissable lips on the rim, exactly where mine were a second ago. I’m suddenly wondering if he’s a good kisser. I swallow hard, watching his Adam’s apple bob as he takes a healthy swig, sending my naughty thoughts into overdrive.
“Well?” I clench my thighs together.
“You’re right. It’s terrible.” He slams the cup on the bar with an exaggerated shudder. “Make it two shots of Fireball over here,” he shouts to the bartender, before turning back to me. “I think my drink’s a safer choice than…what’s it called? I need to know the name, so I never make the same mistake again.”
“Moscow Mule.” I giggle. I fucking giggled. I never giggle. Christ, Charlotte, get a grip.
The bartender slides two healthy shots of spicy whiskey in front of us. My sexy stranger holds one up and thrusts the other in my hand.
“Here’s to never making mistakes in a bar like that again.” He cheers, and we clink glasses. I watch intently as his head tips back, and he swallows the fiery brown liquid in one gulp. “Go on. I promise you’ll still be alive in the morning,” he says with a husky laugh. Definitely something Ted Bundy would say.
“Here goes.” I tilt my head back and swallow the liquid courage in one swig, slamming the empty glass back onto the bar. The spicy burn reminds me I’m alive. I’m still here, and Zach’s not.
“Do you mind sharing?” He leans in, and motions toward the pretzel and nut mix, giving me a chance to take in his clean, addictive scent. “I feel like they’re never going to serve dinner at this thing.”
“Of course.” I keep the giggle to a mild chuckle this time, already feeling the buzz from the whiskey.
I sneak a few glances, realizing this guy doesn’t fit in with high society any more than I do. Maybe he was forced to come to this function like me. Every man in here is wearing a penguin suit, and he’s hot as fuck in dark jeans and black blazer covering a crisp white dress shirt.
I’ll tell you what his jacket’s not hiding: his broad shoulders, and I’m curious exactly how muscular he is under all those clothes. The way the material of the economical jacket stretches over his frame and biceps, I imagine he’s pretty strapping.