Honestly, at this point, I would rather be home in yoga pants eating mozzarella sticks while watching true crime documentaries.
At least serial killers have interesting personalities.
I glance around the bar while my so-called date checks his cell phone—again.
And honestly, I’m glad for the reprieve.
That's also when I noticehim.
Not Brad.
Or Chad.
No, no.
Him.
The man sitting at the bar.
He’s…big.
Broad shoulders.
Dark hair, long enough to brush his shoulders.
He’s wearing a leather cut.
Jeans.
Boots.
And I am intrigued.
Then I get a glimpse of his tattooed forearms—and I swear my heart starts to thud heavily inside my chest.
This is the kind of man romance readers would describe asrugged.
The kind of man who looks like he rides a motorcycle and says things like,“Hop on, Kitten.”
And sadly, this is also the kind of man who absolutely isn't interested in me.
Still.
I catch myself sneaking glances.
And every single time—he's looking.
At me.
Not creepy looking.
Not judging.
Just… watching.
And holy cow, I mean, that’s so not the norm for me.
Something strange flutters in my stomach the second my gaze reaches his face.
