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Lisa grabs the espresso martini in front of her, brings it to her lips for a quick sip, then says cheekily, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” She ducks away from the bar and heads to the back of the restaurant, leaving me alone with a dirty martini, a cold beer, and an empty space beside me that could easily accommodate one handsome, rugged, stranger.
A stranger that slips into the space Lisa just vacated smoothly, as if this whole moment has been choreographed.
He motions to the beer. “Are you waiting for someone?”
With a deep breath, I look up into his dark brown eyes, nodding, even though I should have just excused myself to follow my friend.
Friend? Is that right? Do friends sabotage each other like this?
God, he’s beautiful. Dark brows lower down over his deep brown eyes as his lips tug into a frown.
Wait. Why is he frowning?
“My apologies. I’ll leave you to it.”
Leave me to…
Oh! My eyes widen as I realize my mistake. I grab his arm, then quickly drop my hand. “No, sorry. That’s not what I meant. This is yours.” I pause, then quickly clarify, “My friend ordered it for you.” I motion to the beer, unsure of what to say next because even admitting that last part was embarrassing enough.
If he asks why, I’m out of ideas.
He flashes a satisfied grin and grabs the beer from the bar, raising it to his lips. He says a quick, “Many thanks,” in his delicious southern drawl, then his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip before he takes a sip of the beer and I can’t help but watch in complete rapture. His lips are so full, a dusty shade of pink in his tanned face. The way they wrap around the bottle—
“Jesus,” I mutter, dropping my gaze to my hand on the bar. Show some self-control! I give my head a quick shake, then lift my gaze to meet his and I’m instantly sucked right into what will probably end up being a spectacularly bad good decision.
Or a good bad decision.
Whatever. I’m in either way.
“I’m Sophie.” I extend my hand in the minimal space between us.
He sets the beer down and licks his delicious lips again, sending scandalous thoughts through my mind—because what would those lips and that tongue feel like on my flesh?—then clasps his large hand around mine. “Name’s Dawson. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”
I have to hold back the groan of desire that wants to sneak its way past my lips in response to that delicious southern drawl. When I think I can speak without swooning, I ask, “Where are you from, Dawson?”
He smirks, still holding onto my hand. “I suppose I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?”
My eyes widen. “Sorry, no, I mean…” Shit. I hadn’t meant to make him feel that way, but he does stick out like a sore thumb. With a ruggedness to him that most L.A. guys just don’t possess—unless they’re transplants—and the way he’s dressed, it’s pretty obvious. That whole causal lumberjack thing isn’t ironic; judging by the dirt and scuff marks, his Carhartt boots are actually worn to work in.
And his hand. I drop my gaze to look at the way it envelops mine.
It’s calloused and strong.
He doesn’t sit at a desk, that’s for sure.
When I force myself to look back up into his eyes, I clarify, “You don’t look like the usual douchebags I meet when Lisa drags me out.” I shrug “So I assumed you weren’t from around here. Plus, the accent’s a dead giveaway.”
“I reckon you’re right about that.”
Oof, damn. I think he could read the dictionary and I’d be a hot and bothered mess.
When he finally releases me after such extended contact, my hand feels empty, flapping down to my side like it doesn’t know what to do without this man’s firm grip to guide it.
Which is silly, so I busy said hand by reaching for the much-needed martini waiting for me on the bar.
“And, thank you,” Dawson says.
I look up at him over the rim of the glass. “For what?”
