She answers with an epic eye roll before returning to her customers.
She thinks no one here will tempt her tonight.
And I’m about to show her how wrong she is. If she kisses this guy, there’s a list of chores waiting for her to pay up—painting that wall, sanding that table, reupholstering that stool. If she goes home with him, I’ll be on my way to the pool table. The two-tiered system keeps us both in check. With a bar that’s been a fixer-upper, the list of chores has been endless. The threat of a Saturday lost to scrubbing has kept me pretty chaste, at least in terms of customers.
And I intend to stay that way.
I check out my target. He’s moving through the crowd, peeling himself away from the women as they head to the loo and he heads straight for me. I stare as he struts, jeans clinging to his body, hugging his muscular legs.
Oh yes, there is a definite strut in his walk.
And oh yes, Maeve will lose tonight.
Especially when she gets her eyes on his ink. I have a feeling that those tribal-band tattoos disappear somewhere beyond his broad shoulders.
And I wouldn’t mind seeing where.
Shit, what am I thinking?
I need to focus. This is an acquisition for Maeve. Not eye candy for me.
I shake away thoughts of his full lips as the man sidles up and sits on the stool in front of me.
“Welcome to The Magpie. What’s your poison?”
“Depends what’s good around here,” he says in a raspy American accent. His dark-blue eyes roam the taps.
I’m about to make a suggestion when he meets my gaze. There’s a glint in his irises as he says, “How about a Bud?”
I flinch at this sacrilege. “No. Just no.”
His lips twitch. “Maybe a Corona, then?”
“That won’t happen either,” I say, stern. “We have standards here.”
“How about Pabst?” The question comes out thoroughly deadpan, and that’s when I realize he’s playing me.
And I can go toe-to-toe.
I point to the door. “If you keep this up, I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
He laughs, a warm rumble of a sound. “Beer snob. I like it.”
“And let’s be frank, beer snobbery is completely warranted.”
“Couldn’t agree more. What about music snobbery though? Is that warranted too?”
“Hell, no. Listen to whatever floats your boat. Jazz, show tunes, rap, or anything by Sam Smith, Daley, or Leon Bridges.”
“Excellent choices. And how do you feel about book snobbery then? Is that acceptable?”
“Never. Reading is heaven, and everyone should do it often and indiscriminately.” I realize that I haven’t even gotten the man his drink because I’m having too much fun talking to him.
But I’m doing it for Maeve.
Still, I clear my throat and say, “Let’s get you that drink.”
“How’s the stout selection? When in England and all.”
I’ve officially struck gold. Maeve’s not only a sucker for American accents and men quick with their wit, but she’s especially keen on Americans who do their research and make classic choices.
Of course, I’m also into all of that, but that’s not the point. I won’t be Svengali’d by his easy charm again.
“We’ve got some great ones,” I say. “What’s your style?”
He runs his hand through his beard. How would that beard feel against my face?
Damn it, snap out of it.
“Surprise me,” he says, his voice laced with daring.
He meets my eyes and winks.
And oh no.
Oh, no, no, no.
I made a critical error in my choice for Maeve.
He might be the perfect blend of sexy, rugged, and charming for her, but judging by the hungry way he’s looking at me, she’s not the right one for him.
So I should step away.
Get the guy his drink and leave him be.
“I’ll get you something good,” I say.
“I look forward to that.”
Except I can’t seem to stop flirting with him, and it seems he suffers the same affliction when it comes to me.
As I grab a glass for his stout, I tell myself what not to do.
Don’t flirt anymore.
Don’t trade quips and banter.
And do not exchange numbers, or anything else.
He might just be friendly. Bars tend to have that effect on people.
Besides, this is Maeve’s night to lose, not mine.
I turn and hand him his drink. I should be scanning the crowd for another target for Maeve, but he leans forward on the bar to grab the glass, making the muscles in his biceps tighten, and making it impossible for me to look elsewhere. I’m such a sucker for great arms.
“This is excellent,” he says with a grin. “Seems you have good taste.”
“Yes,” I say, but I’m thoroughly distracted by those ridiculous bicep muscles that flex again as he puts the drink down. He catches me looking, and his grin goes crooked.
Crooked and wicked.
Look, I know the effect I have on men. With the game, it’s never been a problem in terms of supply. Plenty of guys have asked, and plenty have tried. But ever since I decided I wasn’t going to be getting distracted, I’ve been on a streak I don’t intend to break.
The stakes are too high. Sure, we have our gotcha rules, but we implemented them because the business matters too much, and if we start sleeping around, The Magpie might get a reputation.
We don’t want to be that bar.
And I know the price that distractions make you pay.
I won’t let them into my life.
This man, and his mouth-watering arms, won’t be any different.
“So, are you out here for business or pleasure?” I busy myself by cleaning a glass, keeping the conversation as standard as bartender chat can be.
The American leans back and takes another swig of stout. “Pleasure,” he says with a twinkle in his blue eyes. “Fortunately, I don’t have much work to do while I’m here.”
It’s bait. He wants to talk about himself. I should hate how obvious that entrée is, but he makes it seem unbearably charming.
“What field are you in?” I ask, lifting my chin. “You look like you do a lot of lifting. Let me guess—professional mover?”
He smirks. “Not quite.”
I arch a brow, studying him like I’m considering other professions. “Ah, I bet you carry water coolers. Do you work for the Water Cooler Association?”
“Do they have a Water Cooler Association, and if so, how do I get involved?”
“Oh, I’m sure we can find a sign-up form for you somewhere,” I say, and bloody hell, why did I pick him? I need to stop right now.
But I don’t. “Let me try again…carpenter. You’re definitely a carpenter. Wait. No. You work in a timber yard.”
“All excellent choices. All wrong too. I play hockey in the NHL. Defenseman in New York.”
So that’s where the hard body comes from. Professional hockey. And if his arms look like that, I can only imagine what the sport’s done to his chest. His abs. His ass.
Best to put some distance between myself and this man who is far too much my type.
“Ah, that sport with sticks,” I say, stepping back, a slight shift in body language toward other patrons.