But not as strong as the masculine scent currently wafting over me, hitting me with tiny waves of nostalgia. The aroma pokes at pieces of my tequila-singed memory. But the voice that follows is like a sledgehammer, knocking me back into the past. It startles my eyes open.
“A bet about who can annoy you most…” The voice flows overhead. “I think I would win that.”
I glance up to find a pair of mocha brown eyes staring back at me, a smile hidden behind them. The man they belong to smirks, the side of his beautiful face lifting upwards, and the deep breath I’d taken moments before evaporates in my lungs, along with every bit of air in my body. My heart stops.
“Hi, Keats.” Heath glances down at me.
He never did learn to say my name. And I let him get away with it, not caring or daring enough to stop him.
Heath Sparrow was supposed to be a whisper in the wind. At least in my mind.
This was my safe spot, my yuppie antidote. I’d picked it out of the many in Manhattan because it wasn’t fancy like the others, wasn’t packed with the usual Wall Street pricks perusing their local coffee shops to send innocent baristas into an early grave.
Men with more money than God weren’t supposed to be here, dawdling in their expensive leather loafers, dressed to kill. He sidles up beside me without another word, motioning for the bartender, his cufflinks winking in the low light, and I say nothing, my teeth stuck together as I grit them to keep from screaming.
My eyes flit across his frame without my permission, getting their fill of the charcoal suit sitting on his broad frame before finally landing back on the bartender. My new best friend behind the wooden partition gazes expectantly at Heath, who shrugs off a coat that costs more than my car. Heath taps the edge of my glass, his gaze caressing me like a second skin. He smiles.
“I’ll have whatever she’s having.” He fishes out a hundred dollar bill, laying it on the bar. “And make it two.”
He takes a seat, surprising me. My heart hammers an odd-sounding beat. I still say nothing.
“You’re awfully quiet for a woman just about to bite my head off.”
I find my voice. “I wasn’t about to bite your head off.” I motion with my eyes. “I was about to bite the head off one of those guys in the corner. But now I see I should have saved my earlier snarls. You should have showed up sooner. I’m all tapped out.”
“You? Out of snarls?” He laughs lightly, making a shiver run across my skin, the sound of his laughter as rich and heated as his scent. “Never.” He sets his suit jacket aside. “I’d die of shock on that day.”
“Promise?”
My brain cells are finally starting to recover, and with each passing second that Heath Sparrow is in my presence, I find more pieces of my incinerated memory. The memory that recalls very vividly…how much I hate him.
I take a shaky breath, using it to calm my simmering skin—made hot by Heath’s unwelcome company. I release it.
“What are you doing here?” I spit at him. “I thought you were off, scaring my most important client.”
He accepts the drink that the bartender slides across tabletop, his long fingers tapping the edge. He gazes down at me. “I was.” His brown eyes burn. “And then she scared me. I signed the deal, Keats.” He places his large hands next to mine on the bar. “And I’m going to help you try this case. You’re going to need as much evidence against Chris Jackson that you can get.”
My eyes narrow at him. “And by evidence, you mean ‘dirt’.”
His almond-shaped eyes spark. “That’s what the law is, Keats. Dirt. And lots of it. All’s fair in love and the law, and if you want to stay clean, then I’d seriously consider another line of business.”
I shrug. “I have considered another business. Contract killing’s looking better and better.” I take a sip of my drink. “And when exactly are you heading back to LA?”
He smirks. “Eager to get rid of me already, Keats?”
I hate it when he says my name like that. Like he owns it. The hair on the back of my neck pricks, and I stare up at him, doing nothing to hide the teary gloss still gleaming over my eyes. I sniff back a wave of emotion. “By any means necessary, if you haven’t noticed…” I glance over my shoulder. “Like I told the guy from the corner over there, I’d just rather be alone.”
Heath analyzes me with his eyes. “Boss give you a rough time today?”
“Why don’t you ask yourself that question…boss?”
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He takes a sip of his new drink finally. “I’ll take this cocktail you ordered as a double-fucking-yes. This shit is disgusting.”
I almost grin. “I told the bartender to pour me the strongest drink they had.”
Heath raises an eyebrow. “I see. And by that, I’m guessing he thought you meant gasoline.” He glances down into his glass. “A fast way to get shit-faced.”
I exhale, still smelling Heath’s aroma all over me. I shrug. “Is there any other way?”
“Sure…but none I want to know about,” he answers. “Keep pounding those that way, and someone’s going to have to carry you out of here.” He grins, and I hate it when he’s right. He tilts a perfectly unruly head of hair, regarding the drink. “Still don’t want company?”
I say nothing in response, not knowing how to say no after his little spiel. He cuts into my silence before I can speak another word.
“I’ll tell you what,” he starts, reaching into his slacks; pocket. “I’ll flip a coin.” He set a quarter on the oak counter, his fingertips touching the edge. I swallow hard. “Tails: I leave you alone. Heads…I stay.” I raise an eyebrow as he smiles. “For one more drink.”
He flips the coin swiftly in the air, catching it with the back of his hand. Uncovering the quarter, Heath winks at me as the face of George Washington’s seems to do the same.
“Heads, it is,” he announces. “In that case…” Heath hits me with a pointed look. Unhooking the crisp cuffs of his white collared shirt, he raises his arms, sliding the immaculate sleeves up to his elbows, the flash of his muscular forearms making my stomach swirl. I glance away. “I’d better catch up.” He drains what’s left of his drink, raising his hand for another. “I’m never going to reach the shit-faced phase, sipping at this pace.”
Chapter Seventeen
HEATH
This woman could out-drink a fish.
Seven shots in, and I am barely scratching the surface of where Miss Violet Keats, Esquire, is, my brain practically pounding from chugging all the cheap alcohol.
The taste of the cocktail on my tongue is sickly sweet, and I order another glass of the bile, my ego not letting me lag too far behind the petite redhead beside me, swinging a pair of long legs along her sturdy stool.
Happy Hour ain’t so damn happy at eight PM; the bar is nearly empty before the late-night crowd comes in.
Our usual barbs have softened over the past long hour, and through the haze of bad tequila and even worse memories, Violet and I reminisce together, our laughs long and loud as we re-tell the story of the last time we talked, a little over a year ago, at Elsie and Brett’s surprise engagement shin-dig.