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With my back to the bar, I scan the street and consider my options.
There has to be an actual dive bar in L.A., right? Peanut shells on the floor, Hank on the radio—junior, not senior—and maybe a bar fight or two. Is it possible I found myself in the one city on earth where everyone drinks Cosmopolitans and obsesses over shoe brands?
I open up the internet browser on my phone and start searching. There has to be something. Maybe not even a dive bar. I’d be happy with anything that isn’t posh and named after two dudes who apparently like bright pink fur couches and—I swivel my head to look back over my shoulder into the bar—massive black and white photos of palm trees. So many palm trees.
Frowning I turn back toward the curb so I’m ready to hail a cab once I figure out where I’m headed, then focus on my screen. I’m so engrossed in my desperate search that I scarcely notice the gorgeous blonde that steps out of the car at the curb just a few feet away from me.
But I do notice her friend.
My gaze lifts as she extends one leg out of the car, and her shoes—ironically—are the first thing to draw my attention. But only because the red-bottomed black stilettos with heels a mile high are attached to some of the shapeliest legs I’ve ever laid eyes on. Porcelain skin speckled with a spattering of soft freckles disappear into a tight black skirt that stretches down to mid-calf, so snug it clearly hinders her mobility.
Above that is a suit jacket that is all business, save for the fact that it’s open over an emerald satin blouse that drapes scandalously as she leans forward to push herself out of the car.
I should look away, but to say I’m transfixed by the flash of black lace and the soft curves of pale breasts beneath that blouse would be an understatement.
My mouth goes dry and all thoughts leave my head.
She rises to her feet and I finally find my dignity, quickly forcing my eyes up to her face.
The brunette steps onto the curb, stopping when our eyes meet.
Christ, she’s a knockout.
Full lips sit beneath a straight nose slightly too large for her face, and big brown eyes hold my gaze unflinching.
Remembering my manners, I offer her a smile and she averts her gaze, then swiftly looks back at me, flashing a grin that makes the breath stall in my lungs. Whether really good at playing coy or actually adorably coy, I don’t know—and I really don’t care. I wanted to see what Los Angeles had to offer, and the angels so many speak of when referring to this city have dropped one of their own into my lap.
Locked in her gaze, my mind conjures images of her dark chestnut hair spread out against the sheets in my hotel room, lustrous against the pristine white cotton, and my dick jumps in response.
Her full cheeks flush the palest of pink as if she follows my thoughts, then her friend clears her throat, breaking the trance we’re stuck in. “Excuse us,” the friend says politely.
I frown, then step out of the way so they can move past me and head into the bar.
Yeah, I think I’ll stick around a bit, see if this place isn’t half bad.
Because I respect my cousin, of course, and want to spend my money at an establishment that is somehow connected to Mikey.
Family does that sort of thing.
Right.
The knockout with the sinful curves and the big brown eyes? Just an added bonus.
I swivel slowly as she and her friend walk past me toward the door, unable to take my eyes off of her. Is this what women look like in California? What the fuck do they put in the water here?
As she reaches the doorway, she pauses, looks back over her shoulder and locks me in her gaze once more, then she rolls her lips together and ducks her head, clearly back to playing coy—and doing a damn fine job of it. She disappears into the crowded bar and I slip my phone into my pocket, my decision made.
I’m about to start a new chapter in my life and won’t have time for fun when I’m focused on winning a fucking dating show. Might as well enjoy my last night as a free man and see what’s in store for me inside this bar—and pray that knockout brunette is single and willing.
Stepping inside, I try to hide my grimace. I’d originally judged this book by its cover—and I’d been right to do so. The palm tree theme doesn’t stop at the black and white photography covering the walls, but actual fake palm trees are spread throughout the place. Neon signs with random words and catch phrases like ‘the ‘gram made me do it’ and ‘send nudes’ are hung sporadically among the artwork, and every bartender has a neatly trimmed beard, a handlebar mustache, and dainty little tattoos they most definitely picked off the wall of the tattoo shop.
Scanning the patrons as I settle near a tall table off to the side, I locate the woman down the narrow bar a few yards away, settled between two groups of men with designer suits and that air of desperation reserved for young executives trying to fight their way up the ladder, or, in this case, wannabe movie stars jostling to speak to the most important guy in the room.
How the fuck did I let Mikey drag me to the west coast?
This show better be everything he promised.
I lean my elbow on the empty tabletop and wait for her to feel my gaze.
