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Salute, I think, as I tip the glass back against my lips.
The bubbles hit my tongue, and before I can focus on how the alcohol is going to go straight to my head since it’s so early and I haven’t eaten breakfast, my attention is stolen to where Whiskey Eyes has placed his fingers–on my wrist–so lightly it feels like a soft caress.
My pulse skyrockets.
“Maybe I’m being forward…” he says, pausing as he stares at me. Oh, be as forward as you want, Whiskey. My body hasn’t been touched by a man like that in years. “You probably shouldn’t chug that. It will go straight to your head.”
My body registers the rejection before my mind does, my shoulders slumping backward in defeat.
I’m like a wounded freaking puppy, and I hate it. Before Steven—before his affair that made me feel as small as a mouse—I was a lion. In my office, in my life, everywhere that it mattered. But a week after learning that my husband was screwing his secretary—annoyingly cliché—I am withering at the sight of a good-looking man having the decency to tell me to not down a glass of champagne in one sip at eight a.m.
I sit up taller, remembering how many good-looking men I’ve dealt with over the last ten years. I started working with Marion right out of college. She groomed me—teaching me how to hold a fork, which side of the plate my water glass properly sits, how to properly smoke a cigarette. She even taught me how to fold my freaking legs.
Most importantly though, she taught me how to stick my chest out, hold my head up high, and not take shit from anyone. I’d become so good at being her, but I did it with a smile, whereas my boss always looked like she was plotting a murder.
I deal with the clients, and she works in the background. She cansee from a mile away if a couple is meant to be. She arranges the perfect meet-cute, works in the background to ensure that families get along, and guarantees that no one gets in the way of her perfect pairing. Sometimes, I’ll believe I’ve found a woman that would be more suited for one of our clients, and she just purses her lips and looks the other way.
She’s never wrong.
Whiskey stares at me with a smirk pulling at his top lip. I’d totally zoned out during my inner pep talk. “I’m Cash.” He holds out his hand, and the gold Rolex on his wrist grabs my attention.
A laugh escapes my throat. “Of course you are.”
I take his hand in mine, and his brow quirks up. His hand is smooth, but the size of it envelops mine and leaves me imagining the way it would feel if it slid up my throat.
Down girl. I don’t know what is with my mind today. I’ve never been someone into that kind of kink, and yet the way this man is owning me with just a stare is turning my insides to mush.
“Why do you say ‘of course you are’?” His lips are perpetually caught in that curl, as if he’s constantly in on life’s jokes. Men like him always are—above the crowd, surveying everything, and taking what they want.
“It’s the way you carry yourself. The smoothness of your shirt, your Rolex.” My eyes dip down to his watch, and he nods.
“Go on. Tell me what else you see when you look at me.” The mischievous glint in his eye sends a zing down to my toes. Or perhaps it’s just the champagne doing its job.
I tap my manicured nail against my lips. Forget what I see when I look at him. What must he see when he looks at me? A desperate divorcée past her prime? Or maybe, just maybe, I can salvage the next few hours and remember the woman I used to be. Put together, wise, a smart-ass when necessary. That’s the me I like to think that I am when I’m not standing in Steven’s shadow.
“Well, from the way your hair is cut I’d guess you didn’t go to the mall for a trim. You likely spend more on product and the barber than I do.”
Laughter crinkles his eyes. It’s a deep laugh, and I crave to hear it again. “Keep going.”
Emboldened by his obvious enjoyment, I continue, “Your shirt is pressed and there isn’t a wrinkle in your dark jeans. They are tailored perfectly to your legs. And your skin color—that serene, tanned olive complexion—makes it clear that you spend quite a bit of time on pleasurable trips rather than in the office.”
I quirk my brow to see if I’m right. He shakes his head as he smiles. “Anything else?”
Before I can stop myself, I reply, “And you have your pick of women wherever you go, but you’re selective with whom you spend your time. It’s not breasts and short skirts that interest you. You like a challenge.”
Cash’s arm takes up the entire armrest, and he leans his chin on his hand, staring at me. He’s so close I can feel his warm breath. And his cologne, which smells like fresh-cut wood with a hint of fire, dances around me. “Are you a challenge, Ms.…?” He waits for me to provide my name.
I almost correct him and say Missus, but why would I do that? Just to sass him? I smile. “Grace.”
The whiskey in his eyes turns a deep bourbon as his face softens. “Grace,” he repeats, as if trying it out on his tongue. My chest constricts at the sound, and I imagine what it would sound like if he whispered it in my ear while making me come. “So, are you?” he asks.
Am I what? My mind is blank. I’ve completely left the public plane we are seated in and moved us into a fantasy of my own making.
“Hm?” I quirk my head in confusion.
He smiles again. “Are you a challenge, Grace?”
I bite my lip and summon my inner hussy before lifting my champagne glass with a promise, “Not for the next three days.”
