I smiled, unable to pretend I didn’t like what he just did. “I think you’re trouble.”
He chuckled. “That’s a compliment coming from you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
He leaned an elbow on the counter, his eyes glinting in that teasing way that made it impossible to tell if he was amused or about to ruin me. “You want a drink, Mel?”
I hesitated, torn between running for the door or drowning in whatever that smile was promising. “What are my options?”
“Bad decisions or good decisions?”
I snorted. “Both sound like bad decisions.”
He winked. “My specialty.”
I sat down at the bar, trying not to think about how my heart was thudding in my chest. “You really shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it sounds like flirting.”
“Itisflirting,” he said easily, reaching for a glass. “You just never seem to mind as much as you pretend to.”
I rolled my eyes, but it didn’t stop the heat creeping up my neck. “You’re impossible.”
He grinned. “Still sounds like a compliment.”
I groaned.
He laughed under his breath, then turned to grab a bottle from the shelf. And that’s when I saw it again. The new tattoo curled around the inside of his forearm, dark ink shifting with the flex of muscle as he poured.
I didn’t mean to stare.
Okay, maybe I did.
Because the longer I looked, the harder it was not to notice everything else—the easy way he moved behind the bar, the quiet confidence, the way the fabric of his flannel stretched just enough to make my brain short-circuit.
He turned back and caught me.
Of course he did.
“See something you like?” he asked, voice low, amused.
My cheeks went up in flames.
“Does the new ink turn you on?”
“Drew!”
“What?” he said innocently, though his eyes were anything but. “Honest question.”
I tried to glare at him, failed miserably, and muttered, “Maybe.”
His brows lifted, his grin softening into something more dangerous. “Maybe?”
I sighed, giving in. “Fine. Yes. It’s… hot, okay? You happy?”
He pretended to think about it. “Yeah, that’ll do.”
