My cheeks warm again. “Me too, Hotshot. Me too.”
Conversation continues to flow between us, moving from his friends' various disasters to my love of London's hidden gems,from his daughter's apparent obsession with sparkly things to my obsession with spicy romance novels.
“So you're telling me,” he says with mock seriousness, “that you judge people based on whether they've read Penelope Costa?”
“Not judge, exactly,” I protest, unable to contain my laughter. “More like...evaluate their taste level. Gauge our conversational compatibility. Maybe assess whether they're worth investing more time in. Time is our most valuable possession, after all.”
He nods before taking a sip from his whisky, never breaking eye contact as he questions, “And where do I fall on this assessment scale?”
I make a fuss of pretending to consider his question very carefully before allowing a playful smile to tip my lips.
“Well…you didn't run screaming when I mentioned my partiality for reading smut in public, so that right there is promising. But I'll need more data to make a final determination.”
His eyes darken, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. The air between us thickens—suddenly heavy.
Electric.
Humming with something that feels perilously close to desire.
My skin prickles with awareness, and I can feel my pulse begin to gallop. The answering tension in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw tightens, how his throat works when he swallows a mouthful of whisky, eyes never leaving mine.
“I’d bemorethan happy to provide additional data, Rory,” he murmurs, his husky voice low enough to make my pulse stutter and heat pool low in my stomach. His words seem to vibrate through me, and my breath hitches audibly. The space between us feels charged, like the air before a lightning strike.
For a heartbeat too long, neither of us moves, our gazes locked. The space between us feels alive, every charged second daring one of us to cross it. My fingers itch to reach for him, to close the scant inches between us and discover if his lips are as firm as they look.
What I’d said earlier is true. I’ve never been picked up at a bar—cheesy chat-up lines or otherwise—but the sexual chemistry zinging effortlessly between us is almost overwhelming.
Cole’s heated eyes drop to my lips when I tug my bottom lip between my teeth, his nostrils flaring before Steve clears his throat nearby.
With the spell broken, we both glance over to see the bartender giving us a knowing look.
“Last call in fifteen minutes, folks.”
The announcement jolts me like a splash of cold water. Last call. The evening is ending, and with it, this perfect bubble that Cole and I have created.
I glance at him, finding his eyes already on me, that same heated intensity that's been building all night now impossible to ignore. My heart hammers against my ribs as possibilities swirl through my mind—dangerous, thrilling possibilities I've never entertained before.
“I should...” I gesture vaguely toward the restrooms, needing a moment to collect myself and think clearly without those penetrating green eyes scattering my thoughts. “Be right back.”
His lips curve into a knowing smile, and he nods. “I'll be here, Sweetheart.”
That nickname. God, it does things to me every single time.
I slide off my barstool, hyperaware of his gaze following me as I make my way to the ladies' room. My legs feel unsteady, though whether from the mojitos or the electric tension crackling between us, I honestly can't say.
When I arrive at my destination, I plant my palms on the mirror and expel a slow breath as I attempt to gather myself. As I regard my reflection, a smile grows on my lips when I genuinelylikewhat I see. My cheeks are flushed, and my wavy hair is a thing of the past, but the sparkle in my eyes is undeniable.
And it’s not from the raspberry mojitos I’ve had since I sat down beside Cole.
It’s the conversation that hasn’t stopped flowing for the past couple of hours. It’s the easy connection that makes me feel like I’ve known him far longer than the meagre time we’ve shared.
It’s the look in his eyes as they observe me. As they lazily wander across my flesh and make it come to life. Almost like a physical caress.
Single dad. Married to his work. Meets his friends religiously at least once a week. Reads manga and watches reruns ofFriendsto unwind. Has a wicked sense of humour, not to mention the smile that could melt the panties clean off a God-fearing nun.
And if he calls me Sweetheart…One. More. Time…I’ll melt into a puddle bar side.
What’s not to appreciate?
