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That’s the only explanation for what I’m about to do. But I refuse to back down. I refuse to let my anxiety win. Wiping my free hand along the side of my dress, I take two deep breaths—because one is never enough—walk to the bar, and squeeze in where there’s an open spot.
The bartender slides a beer to a gentleman two seats down and points to me. “What can I get you, sweetheart?”
“Amaretto and Coke.”
“Comin’ right up.”
The young man steps away as I slide onto an empty stool. Propping a foot on the bottom rung, I relax as best I can and glance to my right. Several men and a few women are grouped together, chatting and laughing.
Before I have a chance to scope what’s to my left, a glass lands in front of me. I grab a ten-dollar bill from my clutch, but the bartender waves me off. “Open bar until midnight.”
Thank you, Hannah and Brad. I give them a little toast before I take a swig of liquid courage.
“Come here often?” a husky voice says.
I choke, sputtering my drink across the bar, and a large hand lands on my back.
Big mistake. Big, big mistake, because there’s no back to this dress, and the feel of this stranger’s hand against my skin sparks something inside of me. It isn’t just any hand. It’s big, strong, warm, and sends a low-level current down to my toes, causing them to curl inside my Jimmy Choos.
Breathe, Abigail, breathe.
That’s not the easiest thing because the rich, masculine scent of his cologne is causing me to lose all coherent thought.
“I was trying to make you laugh, not kill you,” he says, his voice thick with amusement as he pats my back the way a parent would a small child’s.
This time I manage to laugh without spewing alcohol everywhere.
“There it is,” he croons, removing his hand from my back and placing it on the bar. “I knew I would love it.”
I turn halfway. My eyes lock on his hand first and travel to where the sleeve of his shirt bunches around his elbow. The material is crisp, white, and stretches across his thick forearm.
Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I didn’t know forearms could be sexy.
Swallowing, I follow that forearm up to his broad shoulders, and then I go for it—eye contact.
The moment I see his face, my body melts. It’s a good thing I’m sitting down, otherwise I’d be a pile of goo on the floor at his feet. He’s tall—well over six feet—and quite possibly the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. His dark hair is messy, giving it that freshly fucked look, and his chiseled jaw looks as smooth as a baby’s butt.
Dark brown eyes watch me with a hint of laughter and enough heat that I don’t have to guess whether the attraction I’m feeling is mutual. It’s clear that he, too, likes what he sees.
My tongue darts out, wetting my bottom lip. His grin is boyish and outlines two rows of straight, white teeth. The longer I stare, the more his smile grows, and when a set of dimples pop up on his cheeks, I know I’m a goner.
Get it together, Abby.
Clearing my throat, I look away and take a sip of my drink. When I’m certain I have my eyes and crazy-ass hormones under control, I meet his gaze.
“I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“I said I knew I’d love it.”
“Love what?”
He tilts his head and watches me as if I should already know the answer. “Your laugh.”
“How could you know you’d love my laugh?”
“Because you have a mesmerizing smile. It caught my attention from across the room when you were talking to Hannah and Grace.”
This makes me sit up straight. “You were watching me?”
