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Lord have mercy he was gorgeous. I hadn’t even seen a full shot of his face yet, because his head was downcast as he poured drinks. I’d never—in my life—felt this way for anyone. I’d never felt arousal so strong it sucked at the air around me.
His shoulders were wide, his arms muscular and tapered down to strong hands and long fingers that moved fluidly over the bottles of liquor.
The white shirt did nothing to conceal how in shape he was. And if I fantasized, that man would be the epitome of what turned me on.
I stared at the sweeping lines of his pectoral muscles, traveled down his narrow hips, even saw a very defined six-pack under the material, those hills of muscle, that definition pressing against the thin cut of his shirt enough to make all kinds of obscene images slam into my head.
My heart started beating a little harder, endorphins moving through me so quickly I felt dizzy. Adrenaline raced through my veins, and I started to bounce my foot on the rung of the stool. I never in my life felt such a reaction to a man, and all because he was pretty?
No... gorgeous. Masculine. Powerful. All man.
And then he lifted his head and handed the drinks to the customers at the bar, flashing them a smoldering grin, a dimple popping in one cheek, his straight white teeth flashing.
God, the air left me violently, and I actually found myself gripping the edge of the table, curling my nails against it so I was scraping the scarred wood.
He looked my way, presumably to help the next customer, but his eyes locked on me. I hadn’t been able to take my focus off him, so we were locked in this seemingly unbreakable stare, like two magnets being drawn.
I was sure we stared at each other for an eternity, his nostrils flaring, his eyes narrowing on me a second before, ever-so-slowly, he smiled, that dimple coming up once more, and my entire body shuddered.
All from a smile. From this man. A stranger. The only person to make me feel like my blood was on fire.
And I’d never wanted to burn hotter than I did now.
2
Cillian
Mercy, she was the loveliest thing I’d ever laid eyes upon.
Strawberry-blonde hair. Bright green eyes. A curvy little body that she could no’ hide behind the table.
She was definitely no’ from Duthmoore.
Even from the distance that separated us, I could see she had freckles along the bridge of her nose, her alabaster skin showcasing those little gorgeous marks.
For the next hour, I tried tae focus on serving customers, but my gaze kept going back tae the strawberry-blonde. And I was proud as fook tae see her trying in vain no’ tae stare at me as well.
She was just finishing her second beer when I watched her stand and start tae reach for her wallet. This strange panic stemmed within me, and I felt my heart race.
“Oye, Brigid, can you tend the bar?”
Brigid looked up from the cases of whiskey she was inventorying and nodded. Once she was behind the bar and serving customers, I grabbed a rag to wipe off my hands and searched for the redhead. For a second, I didn’t see her amongst the growing crowd, that unfamiliar panic rising again.
And then I saw a flash of her hair as she opened the door and stepped outside. I excused myself and followed, trying tae be polite as possible when customers tried tae talk with me. I was well liked in Duthmoore, and enjoyed jovial conversation and downright bullshitting with the townsfolk. This was an intimate community, and everyone was friendly. The village was like a family. So being rude and brushing customers off felt wrong tae me.
But letting her get away feels even more wrong.
And right now, there was nothing more urgent or pressing than getting tae her.
Whoever she was.
It was almost… an instinct that left me unable tae stop my feet or use any kind of rationalization. I was in a frenzy tae get tae her.
I pushed the heavy door open and stepped outside, the March air having a bite tae it that felt good on my overheated skin.
The walkways were packed, and I searched for her with that familiar panic settling in once more. So many people. Locals and tourists clogging the street. Normally, I’d love this. More customers. More new people tae meet. But no’ now.
And then I saw her through an opening in the crowd, the red peacoat she wore a stark flash of color, her strawberry hair billowing out behind her as the wind picked up.
My feet were taking me tae her before I could stop myself. No’ like I would have.
And then I was saying, “Lass,” and reaching for her before she crossed the street. My fingers were lightly curling around her wrist, this shock wave spearing up my forearm and through my bicep. It was like I touched a livewire.
