“Working on a Saturday?”
“Event planner.”
“Spent all day dealing with a bridezilla?” He took a sip of his drink, and she didn’t roll her eyes at his stupid, sexist comment. The amber liquid rolling from the glass to his mouth was much more fascinating.
“That’s a dumb, sexist thing to say when I’m already pissed.” As if the only thing that event planners did was plan weddings. True, she wanted to plan weddings because that was where the money was, but she did so much more.
Then the stupid asshole smiled at her again. “Back to that.”
She was surprised that at least half the panties in the room didn’t incinerate under the force of his grin. Good God. He was so pretty that it hurt. Features cut from stone and stubble not quite artful enough to be on purpose. Drinking bourbon with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He was citified masculinity that wasn’t quite civilized. A contradiction, and the kind of thing Hannah went crazy for. The dimples that bisected the stubble had a feral quality that made her want to touch him.
He’d moved a little closer since she’d turned around ready to tear his buddies apart. They’d retreated, but he’d advanced. It was kind of sexy that he wasn’t afraid of her, that he didn’t buy her painstakingly cultivated bitchy exterior. His lack of fear was working on her in a major way, and that terrified her. After Noah, she’d sworn to herself that she wouldn’t be foolish enough to believe that someone could want her for something other than a few rolls between the sheets, and a Hey, babe, that was fun, but I’m just not looking for a girlfriend right now.
Because they were never looking for a girlfriend, especially not her as a girlfriend.
That didn’t hurt anymore. It didn’t. She’d accepted that she was just not the kind of girl men romanced. With her ethnically ambiguous looks, bawdy sense of humor, and filthy mind, men wanted to have sex with her. And then—once they realized that she wasn’t entirely domesticated—they wanted her to disappear.
She had to remind herself of this, make it her mantra whenever this man was near. Never forget that men were the enemy, regardless of how friggin’ sexy his smile was.
He stepped even closer, leaving only half a foot of space between them. Hannah clocked Kelly and Sasha in her peripheral vision. They’d moved over to one of the stand-up tables.
Great. Neither of them believed her when she said that she was done with dating and romance and men for good. Their seeing her charmed by the prime cut of Chicago man-meat in front of her would not do at all. And yet, she couldn’t seem to turn around and run away.
Maybe she should slap him. He hadn’t done anything slap-worthy, but he had her cornered. In the middle of a crowded bar, with multiple options for egress, she was pinned in place because he’d smiled at her.
“What’s your name?” His voice softened, and she broke eye contact.
She looked around; his friends had made themselves scarce as well. “Hannah.” She looked at his chest when she told him. Meeting his gaze was too intimate and it made her cheeks flush.
“I’m Jack.”
That was a very good name. It made her think of hard liquor and sex.
“Of course you are.” Damn, he smelled delicious. Like freshly showered man draped in freshly laundered shirt. With a little bit of citrus and bourbon on his breath. It was like a lethal dose of bro, but it appealed to her despite her struggle to maintain her antipathy along with her dignity.
His laugh surprised her. “Hannah, tell me something.”
She didn’t respond but made eye contact again. Mistake.
“Can I get you another drink?”
She looked down to the mostly melted ice and rye in her glass. It would be stupid to have a drink with him. If she spent any more time in his aura of good-natured all-American Chicago boy, she would think about him for months. She’d wonder if she’d been too harsh and why he didn’t call. Because if she didn’t leave right now, she was going to give him her number.
Green-eyed Jack was looking at her as though he was starved for her. He would ask for her number so he could try to sweet-talk her into no-strings-attached sex—if he didn’t come right out and ask her if she wanted to bone that night. That was probably what he would do. If he did, he was so tempting to look at, and so not fooled into thinking that she was ready to hate him solely because he was a man, she would do it.
Then he still wouldn’t call, and it would be even worse than if he was just some guy she’d talked to in a bar one night.
If she left now, she could be home in time and sober enough to pretend he was attached to her favorite vibrator. His tongue swept over his lower lip, and he must have taken her silence for assent. Large, blunt fingertips brushed her smaller ones as he took her glass.
He motioned to the bartender for another round without leaving her side. Probably sensing that she would leave if he gave her an iota of the space that she ought to crave.
“I don’t date.” It was only fair to warn him that she was done— so done.
He looked back at her. “Neither do I.”
“I mean, seriously. I don’t—um—” She just had to tell him that she didn’t date, and she also didn’t do the random hookup thing. Wouldn’t be going home tonight and feeling his skin against hers. She hadn’t clocked the light dusting of chest hair through the small opening at the collar of his shirt.
“We’re just having a drink, Hannah.” He smiled again when he passed her a fresh tumbler of rye. “Think of it as an apology from my friends.”
“Why are you apologizing for them?”
“I don’t talk like that about women.”
But she was sure that he thought that way about women. He was young, handsome, and well built. His watch and the quality of his clothes said he wasn’t obscenely wealthy, but he probably lived relatively well. His straight white teeth said that his parents had been able to afford braces. So while he was smart enough not to seem like an asshole whose interest in her would be limited to a one-night stand or a string of booty calls, there was no way that he saw someone who would bust his balls every day at the end of his dating tunnel. Too bad she would really enjoy busting his balls.
“But I’m sure you think that way.”
“No.” His face hardened, and he took a drink. “I don’t. My friends are assholes, but I think those apps make it easy to be.”
“They turn people into commodities.”
“Exactly.” One cheek muscle flexed, and the dimple was back. She wondered what he’d do if she put her fingertip in it. “You shouldn’t shop for a partner like you shop for groceries.”
Advice wasted on her. “I don’t do that. I told you, I don’t date.”