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"Wasn't hiding it, darling," I shoot back, "just had it on simmer."
But the heat cranks up a notch when I spot him—Merrick. Lurking in the shadows, his eyes are twin storms brewing on the horizon, dark and fathomless. He watches, unblinking, and the air crackles with an intensity that pulls at me, begging for the storm to break.
My heart skips, a traitorous little thing, but I stamp down the flutter. Not today, heart. We have standards now—like not falling for men who treat privacy like a suggestion.
"Another round!" a voice calls, and I'm back, the queen of my domain, drowning Merrick's gaze in a sea of vodka tonics and whiskey sours.
Merrick's stare is heavy, a tangible touch skimming across my skin. I shudder, but not from fear. No, it's something far more dangerous—anticipation, laced with defiance.
I won't cave. I can't.
Who is Merrick anyway? He's just a man.
A brooding, intense man with a gaze that could scorch the soul.
A man who I’m going to ignore, I remind myself.
The bass thumps a wild rhythm, matching the erratic beat of my heart as I maneuver through the sea of writhing bodies to deliver an order.
"Hey, sugar," drawls a voice, thick with booze and bravado. I don't need to look to know who it is; the guy's been eyeing me like I'm the last drop in an empty bottle all night.
"Keep it sweet, or keep it moving," I shoot back with a wink, placing his vodka tonic on the sticky counter. But then his hand snakes around my waist, grip tightening, pulling me a hairbreadth too close for comfort.
"Come on, baby, show me a good time," he slurs, his breath hot against my ear.
My skin crawls, every alarm bell in my head screaming red alert. I'm about to give him a piece of my mind—with interest—when suddenly, there's a shift in the atmosphere. A presence behind me, strong and silent as a storm cloud.
"Back off," rumbles a voice, low and lethal. Merrick.
The drunk stumbles backward as if struck, mumbling apologies before losing himself in the crowd. I'm shaking, adrenaline surging, but when I spin around, there he is—Merrick, my unexpected knight in a tailored suit.
"Thanks, but I could have handled it," I mutter, even though gratitude is a bitter pill right now.
Merrick just nods, those soulful eyes of his searching mine. There's so much there: regret, longing, a fierce protectiveness that has no right to stir anything in me. But damn it, it does.
"Abby," he starts, voice rough like gravel, but I hold up a hand.
"Save it," I say, even as my resolve wavers under the intensity of his gaze. It's like looking into the sun—blinding, burning, impossible to ignore.
"Can we talk?" His words are simple but they slice through the noise, straight to the core of me.
"Talk is cheap, Merrick." My voice is steady, but inside I'm a mess of tangled emotions.
"Please," he says, and oh, how that word wraps around my heart, tugging at strings I thought I'd severed.
I study him, really look at him. The way his jaw clenches, the slight tremor in his hands—he's a wreck, and despite everything, I care. Because beneath the layers of hurt and betrayal, there's something raw and real that pulls at me.
"Fine," I acquiesce, voice barely above the din. "But this doesn't change anything."
"Understood," he replies, but there's a glimmer of hope in his eyes that wasn't there before.
I let him lead me to a quieter corner of the club.
We stand there staring at one another. His gaze rakes over me. I note the way his chest heaves up and down.
He looks at my lips.
I look at his.
