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“You know, maybe we should have a Noir Night here,” Lawrence muttered, wandering off.

“I think it’s a great idea.” Torr squeezed her waist. Lowering his voice to a wicked whisper, he added, “But only if you promise to dress like this every time.”

“Do you like it?”

“You’re jesting, lassie,” he said, falling into his ancestral accent. “’Tis the finest article of clothing, or lack of it, this Scotsman has e’er seen.”

“I love it,” she said. “Will you talk like that for the rest of the night?”

“Yer wish is my command,” he said. “But I’ll be needing a boon in return.”

“Anything.”

A dangerous proposition.

“Can we leave. Now?” he pressed, looking her in the eyes. Wanting to do so much more than that.

“But your brother’s bar—”

“Will be here tomorrow. And the following day. And the day after—”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Just let me finish my drink.”

Torr let his hand trail from her waist down to the top of her hot pants, slipping just one errant finger inside.

“Or not.”