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Get a grip!
I’m trying not to react to him but it’s impossible. He exudes power. Confidence. I’m practically floating in the cloud of testosterone he’s emitting. It’s like breathing in a pure, uncut aphrodisiac. I can feel my heartbeat in the most intimate place imaginable.
Yikes.
The bartender delivers my wine and Casanova slides my company credit card toward me, saying to the bartender, “Put the rest of our tab on my room, please. 700. And I’ll have a scotch on ice.”
“Yes, sir.”
He’s more handsome than any man I’ve ever seen. He has a strong, straight nose, a sharp jawline and thick, well-cut dark hair. I’m slightly in awe that anyone could be this good-looking.
“It must be difficult for you,” he comments, that low, smooth rumble like velvet.
“What do you mean?”
“Trying to have a quiet drink when every man in the bar is watching you.”
“Are they?” I glance around.
“Of course they are. Where’s Surfer Boy?”
“Who? Oh, he left for the North Shore after he gave me that lesson yesterday.”
“Well, that’s good.” Ace’s blue gaze roves slowly over my face, like he’s drinking in the details of me. The bartender serves his drink and he loosely holds his glass. His hand is tanned and strong-looking. His grip must be punishing. And there’s no ring on the crucially important finger. Not even a tan line.
Don’t even dream of being relieved, girlfriend.
“What’s the accent?” he drawls. “Let me guess. Texas.”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It’s not a hard one.”
“I guess that’s true.” Most people figure out I’m from Texas within the first five minutes of meeting me.
He holds eye contact much more easily than I do. I feel myself blush.
The way his clothes fit him hint at a powerful chest and an impressive build. The top two buttons of his shirt are undone, revealing a light pelt of chest hair. I’ve honestly never been in the presence of chest hair before. My father checked out early. And I was always too busy studying and working to hang out with random men. Broad, hair-dusted chests are new to me. My hands itch as I imagine running my fingers over the textures of him, to see what all that solid muscle would feel like.
This is completely unlike me. I’ve never had a reaction like this to a man in my life.
Damn it, girl, pull yourself together!
I take another gulp of wine.
He’s ridiculously sexy. And he’s tuning in to some buried female instinct that’s—right now—waking up. Against my will, my body feels like it’s opening to him like a flower seeking sun.
“I was hoping you might do some more surfing this afternoon.” That lethal smirk again. His eyes never leave me. “I enjoyed watching you.”
“I was a disaster for all of it but the last thirty seconds.”
“It’s not easy getting a ride on your first try.”
Is it me or did he just say “ride” with a dark, dirty promise behind it? God, I’m so bad at this. I don’t even know whether he’s flirting with me or not.
Whenever I’ve been hit on in a bar before, I usually make polite conversation for two-point-zero seconds and then get the hell out of there. But I’m pinned to my seat. The way he’s looking at me…it’s like he’s put some kind of sex-spell on me.
Every alarm bell in my head should be ringing. He’s too good-looking, too charismatic, too sure of himself to be anything other than trouble. But I can’t move an inch, even if I wanted to. The thought of his muscular thigh accidentally rubbing against mine is keeping me locked in place.
