“Dammit,” I mutter under my breath, and I look around a little helplessly only to meet a set of eyes staring at me from the table beside the bar.
It’s Hot Calves. I’m sure of it. And he’s in a booth that’s clearly meant for four people.
Even his cheekbones tell the story that he works out. My eyes flick down to his arms, and I note that they have that same glisten of athleticism to them—strong and sexy. Strong enough to hold himself up as he hovers over me.
Jesus, Millie. Pull yourself together.
The eyes on mine are green, or maybe gold—some sort of incredible hazel color, anyway—and the corner of his lips is turned up in a bit of a smile. I set my hand on my hip and raise my brows as I look pointedly at his table of one meant for four.
“They told me it would be forty-five minutes for a table,” I say. “Can I sit here? I promise you don’t even have to talk to me. I’m just starving after a long day of travel and need a seat and a quick meal.”
He studies me for a few beats, a gruff look on his handsome face that sort of makes me feel a little intimidated to actually sit with him. Eventually, he relents, nodding across the table at the empty bench across fromhim.
“Oh my God, you’re my hero,” I breathe as I sit, and he chuckles. “I’m Millie, by the way.”
“Archer,” he says with a nod.
Archer? But he said Brad—
OH. MY. GOD.
I’m sitting across the table from Archer Motherfucking Bradley?
I’m sitting with a professional baseball player. The hottest one in all of Major League Baseball. He’s across from me. I asked if I could sit with him. I didn’t recognize him. Why would I have? I don’t really watch baseball all that much, but I’ve heard of Archer Bradley. I’m quite actually more of a football fan, and being from the Chicago area, I’m well aware of the Bradley family.
No wonder why those calves are so damn hot. He’s a goddamn professional athlete.
My mouth goes completely dry, and for just a second, this wave washes over me that makes me feel like I just might pass out.
I fake like I don’t know who he is.
“I can’t thank you enough for letting me sit with you,” I gush.
“You said we wouldn’t have to talk,” he reminds me.
Well, then. Okay.
I stare at the menu awkwardly. He’s not exactly the friendliest, so I suppose I’ll eat a quick meal and bust on out to start checking out the resort.
A server comes over to take our drink order, and Archer orders first. “Whiskey, neat. Make it a double.”
I was planning on just ordering a water, but I need something a little stronger than water so I don’t lose my shit in front of this man. “Aperol Spritz.”
“What’s that?” Archer asks.
I can’t help a nervous giggle as the server walks away. “Aperol, prosecco, and soda water.”
“What’s Aperol?”
“An orange liqueur. I thought you didn’t want me to talk to you.”
“I don’t. You drink these often?”
I laugh. “I bartend most nights, but yeah. I’ve made a few, drank a few. You’re welcome to try mine when it arrives.” I open the menu and glance through it. My stomach is empty, so the drink is going to smash into me quickly.
When I glance up, he’s still looking at me.
“What?” I ask.
