Page 8 of Pink

Gigi resisted the urge to pull out the phone just to check the email about Paris one more time—like she hadn’t already done it fifty times since leaving the apartment. As if the email might suddenly disappear, and the dream that had just been placed into her hands would go up in smoke all because she decided to read the email again.

Still …

It was there.

Real.

Actually happening.

Soon, she would be on a plane to Paris, contracted to a satellite agency while working exclusively as a model for a major designer that for whatever reason … picked her. She had so many questions. Starting with why and ending with how.

Right then, all she could do was smile.

“Has anybody ever told you that your face should be on magazines?”

Gigi’s head popped up as a laugh burst from her lips. The man that had been working with the girls further down the bar approached her spot at the end, passing by at least twenty other people who gestured with a bit more ferocity at his blatant disregard for their shouts and demands. The white tee he wore stretched across the broad bands of muscle that made up an expansive chest. Rolled up at the sleeves, the fabric tightened to show off the way his strong arms and golden skin, dusted with dark hair, glinted under the pot lights that made up the backdrop of the bar when he placed them in front of her spot on the shiny top.

Black hair, shaved down to a well-groomed buzz, had a blue tint and only added to the sea-color of the stare that flicked over her features and then chanced a glance down at the low dip in the front of her romper. The man had no shame that he was checking her out, but she didn’t really mind all that much, either.

He wasn’t hard on the eyes.

It didn’t hurt to look at him.

Not at all.

And since he seemed content to drink in a good gulp of her, she did the same for him. Standing at least six and a half feet tall behind the bar, he towered higher than even the shelves of liquor behind him. Strong lines made up a face that didn’t have a hint of boyishness anywhere—not in the scruff that dotted a jaw and cheeks carved from stone. He was all man, all over. A thick brow quirked up when her stare slammed back into his, and a sexy grin stretched his thin lips wide to show off the white teeth that made up his smile.

And God.

What a fucking smile it was.

“Well, have they?” he asked.

Gigi had enough sense to swallow before she spoke, lest her next words come out in a girlish rush of hormones and stupidity. It wasn’t often a man could make her tongue-tied, and certainly not by only his approach.

But here she was.

Suddenly, this celebration was looking way better.

“It’s not the first time I’ve heard that line, actually,” she replied.

A laugh burst from his mouth, and yes, she somehow managed to feel that sound all over her body. The noise of the bar began to disappear all around her as the good-looking bartender with a body that looked more suitable to be in the ring than behind the bar leaned in. Edging a bit closer to her, he used his free hand to toss a yellow-checkered bar rag over his broad shoulder.

The action had her swallowing.

Again.

Because she’d noticed his fingers. Their length, the roughness of the digits like he used them a lot, and then their proximity to her when he dared to point one at her.

“But the better question,” he said, “is whether you’ve ever actually been on a magazine, hmm? Something familiar about that face.”

“Really? Because everyone likes to say they’ve never seen one like it.”

Those blue eyes of his blinked.

Then, he smirked.

“Maybe that’s it—never seen anything like it.”