Rude. So unbelievably rude.
I sink deeper into the booth I’ve claimed, tucked safely behind a wall of loud, drunk locals passionately debating whether someone named Ricky had actuallyintendedget a skull tattoo on his ass or if tequila had simply ruined his life.
Honestly, after listening to the story, it’s impossible to say.
My drink rests untouched between my fingers, condensation slick against my skin.
Because priorities.
And my priority is currently being contaminated by a blonde bombshell.
She’s gorgeous,obviously. Glossy hair, flawless makeup, and a bright, flirty laugh designed to wrap around male egos and set off every territorial alarm in my system.
Her hand slides along Tomcat’s arm in a casual, familiar way.
Totally unacceptable.
I narrow my eyes, and my jaw tightens.
I’m not jealous. Absolutely not jealous. Just…assessing. Like a pint-sized, emotionally frazzled security system running a full threat analysis.
Yes.
Very rational. Very sane.
She leans in, and his lips twist into that smirk that promises trouble is about to get personal.
My stomach flips in a violent, wildly inconvenient tumble.
Goddess, that mouth. That ridiculous, devastating, sinful mouth. It has no business existing on someone who already owns that voice, those hands, and the whole dark, broody, flirty biker package.
Pick a struggle, Tomcat.
Seriously.
Have some manners.
Sheesh.
His face shifts, giving herthatlook. Heavy-lidded, deliberate, loaded with the kind of intent that never ends in innocence. It’s the look of a man about to make a terrible decision and savor every second.
Blondie straightens, her entire body lighting up like Christmas morning.
Oh, honey.
No.
No, no, no.
We’re not doing this tonight.
Sorry, not sorry.
She slides off the stool, hips swaying with the kind of confidence that announces her bathroom break is a mission, not a retreat.
Perfect.
My pulse jumps, excitement unfurling warm and wicked through my chest.
