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She slid into the seat next to him without invitation. In Garrett’s seat. “I beg to differ. I got up to use the ladies room and then you were here. I even left my drink here to keep my seat, and put a note on top not to clear the table—that I’d be back.”
Mike picked up an empty glass. “You mean this finished drink?”
“That’s mine.” She took it from him. “You can clearly see it’s the same shade of lipstick I’m wearing now.”
He looked at her lips. Her very red, very kissable lips. “Indeed. But where’s this note?”
She looked on the table, then underneath. “It was here. I swear it.”
“Well…it’s not now, so we didn’t know.” He watched her, unable to help himself. She had a certain vivacity to her that enthralled him. She practically hummed with energy and excitement. If this were any other night, he’d buy her a drink and get to know those lips a little better. “Sorry for the misunderstanding but we didn’t see a note.”
“Uh, thanks. I think.” She fidgeted under his stare, and when she tugged the neckline of her shirt down nervously, he caught sight of a glittery bra.
Son of a bitch. One of the boys must’ve hired a stripper for Garrett—even though he’d specifically requested not to have one. If Garrett were marrying anyone else besides his baby sister, he would have laughed and paid for the performance. Hell, he would have even approved.
But not this time.
“Which one of you dickwads did this?” he asked to no one in particular. Mike scowled and pulled out his wallet. “I appreciate the fact that you came here to dance for our boy but you’re not needed. I’ll pay you for the dance anyway, but then you can go home.”
She stiffened, and turned to face him with wide eyes. The fury in her eyes would have smote him on the spot, if she had the capability to shoot fire from them. He’d be nothing but singed ashes on the burgundy plastic seat.
“Buddy, you couldn’t afford me even if you tried,” she said. “And FYI? I’m not a stripper. Not all dancers are strippers, but I wouldn’t expect someone like you to know that.”
And with that, she shoved out of the booth and crossed the bar with her head held high and her jean-shorts-clad ass swinging with each step. Who the fuck wore shorts in March, anyway? Women with the longest, leanest, sexiest legs he’d ever seen. Women like her.
Her brown cowboy boots stomped their way across the room, and he had a feeling she used those boots to stomp all over men, too. She tossed one last spiteful look back at him and then sank into an empty barstool.
And he?
Couldn’t look away.
Chapter Two
Morgan Collins ignored the weight of that man’s stare with the stubborn determination that had been rightfully handed down to her from a long line of stubborn Irish women.
But, really.
Of all the arrogant, insufferable, no good know-it-alls in the world, that man sitting in her seat was definitely the worst. And then some. First, he stole her booth and didn’t even care. Then he topped that off with accusing her of being a stripper and trying to send her off sans the dance he’d thought she was trying to deliver.
She didn’t know which was more insulting—the fact that he’d automatically assumed she was a stripper, or the fact that he hadn’t wanted her to dance for him at all. Like, what the hell was his problem, anyway? How had he even known she was a dancer? Maybe he had recognized her from the stage. That could have led to his snide assumption about her being a stripper. Some men didn’t know the difference between a Vegas showgirl who danced because she loved the art and a stripper who took her clothes off for money.
She wasn’t one of those girls.
She danced because she was a dancer. She didn’t know a life without dancing and hoped she never would. Dancing was her life. The thing that made her happiest and most fulfilled. A burst of masculine laughter crossed the loud bar and she looked over her shoulder. It was him, all right. How bad was it that she recognized his laugh already? He’d been over there, in her seat, for two hours now. Laughing with his buddies, tipping back the drinks.
While she’d been stood up by her blind date.
She was supposed to meet some guy her friend had hooked her up with but the jerk hadn’t even bothered to show. Between that dating disaster, the audition she’d gone on earlier that she was sure she’d blown, and the asshat in her booth, her self-esteem had taken a blow today. A big one.
As she watched him in what she hoped was an un-obvious manner, his group of men stood up and exited the bar. Leaving only one behind—the same one who’d insulted her. He slid back into the booth, spread his legs across the seat, and stared back at her.
Wait. Back at her? Oh, crap, she was still staring, wasn’t she?
He cocked a brow at her but she refused to look away. She’d been caught. Might as well make herself look cocky and bold instead of skittering away like a frightened lamb. When she didn’t back down, he grinned and pointed at the seat opposite him—the other half of the booth that was quite empty now. He wanted her to sit with him.
Should she?
Before she even realized she’d made a decision, Morgan was crossing the room with her half empty whiskey sour in her hand. His gaze skimmed over her body and she didn’t miss the light of appreciation in his eyes. He might have sent her away earlier but he liked what he saw. Good. Maybe she’d get him all riled up and horny and then leave. It would serve the jerk right.
