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I close my eyes and pinch myself.
He's still here. Still staring.
He shakes his head, bringing his attention back to our conversation. He makes a show of flexing his arms in a strongman gesture. "You saying I don't have the physique of someone who hits the gym every morning?"
"I figured assassins worked mostly at night."
"You'd be surprised."
My drink is still ice, and I still need more. I pop another ice cube into my mouth and suck hard. "Maybe it's the tattoos. I don't see you showing up anywhere anytime before noon."
His laugh lights up his eyes. He scoots close enough for the outside of his leg to brush against the outside of mine. "Tattooed guys don't get anywhere on time?"
"No." Damn, my heart is beating even faster. And I'm down to two ice cubes. I pop both into my mouth.
"I'm enjoying the show." His tongue slides over his lips. "But I'm happy to buy you another drink."
"Plus, I'm out of ice cubes."
"True." His fingers curl around his glass. He brings it to his lips and takes a long sip of the amber liquid.
Scotch.
That's the kind of thing my dad drinks. It doesn't seem to fit Joel. But then Joel and I only met ten minutes ago. Maybe he's a scotch kingpin. Maybe his entire life is devoted to scotch.
He hails a cocktail waitress and orders us another round. Once she leaves, he scoots closer.
The back of his hand brushes against my shoulder.
"It's not that I think tattooed bad boys are irresponsible." I'm out of ice cubes. I have no way to occupy my nervous energy. Even though my thoughts are floaty, my hands are nervous. I press my palms against my quads. It helps. "It's more that you seem effortless. Like a surfer."
With the shaggy, dark blond hair, the green eyes, and the incredibly toned physique, Joel really does look like a surfer boy.
But is he effortless?
He turned on like a lightbulb around that blond woman. When she left, he dimmed. Not like he was sad. No, it was more like he was shifting back to his normal self instead of putting up a front.
Right now, the way he's looking at me… he's still on. But it's not at 150 watts. It's more like 60. Or 30 even.
Ahem.
This is a one-night stand. Joel's not my future husband. I shouldn't be psychoanalyzing him.
It's a habit, something I do to everyone I meet.
But it's not why I'm here tonight.
I'm here to get out of my head.
And into his pants.
God, that's cheesy… but it's true.
I should be staring at his broad shoulders.
Wondering what his arms will feel like wrapped around me.
What his body will feel like against mine.
