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It was the regular Friday night crowd for housewarming parties and cocktail hours. Businessmen who removed their tie and cuffed their sleeves, sipping on whiskey and acting casual, perhaps stealing a glance at a coworker or recognizing the woman who stood in front of them at the coffee shop yesterday, and hoping to find a dark, private corner of the house to share a few stolen moments.
“Thank you,” I said, taking my drink from the server who’d returned with my club soda. As I looked around, I noticed all the women were dressed like me. Pantsuits or skirts with the jacket removed and the hair loosened just enough to shake off the stress of the office. It was the same every weekend. Some party. Some event. Some place to be seen, to socialize, to hope to fit in.
To let off a little steam.
The parties were my escape from the mundane, a chance to feel something, anything—a connection. I leaned against the elegant staircase and sipped my drink, taking in the profile of a tall, dark, and handsome man by the glass doors leading to the porch. His eyes were dark and feral, as if he were on the prowl—like me.
Tilting my head, I studied how he shifted his weight from foot to foot, worrying my bottom lip between my teeth. Something about him was familiar, and it hit me as he brought his drink to his mouth and the gaudy gold ring on his pinky reflected in the lights.
Foot fetish.
We went home together about a month ago. Everything was going swimmingly until we got naked and he licked my foot before asking to try on my shoes while sucking on my toes.
And people wonder why I’m single.I scoffed as a couple walked by, looking at me with a question on their lips. I arched one eyebrow and downed the rest of my drink, watching as they walked off, whispering to one another. A server passed with another tray of those blue electric monstrosities and I snagged one, taking a sip and cringing at the sugary sweetness.
It was time to call it a night and cut my losses. Even the thought of another casual hook-up wasn’t enough to pull me out of this funk. If I left now, there’d be plenty of time to research a new fanfiction piece I’d been tinkering on with a glass of dry merlot. Setting the unfinished drink on a passing tray, I straightened and applied more gloss before covertly tucking it back into my bra.
“What else do you have in there?” a husky voice asked, pulling my eyes up, then up some more. Being five-nine without heels, I rarely looked up to anyone, but the man who had drawn my attention had to be at least six-four.
Whoa.
I guess it sounded superficial, and maybe it was, but I usually noticed a guy’s hotness level first. Give me a sharp jaw, corded muscles, or bitable ass any day of the week. That was better than pretending to be mesmerized by someone who had the personality of a wet mop to go with his comb-over and thumb rings.
But for all my superficial musings, I couldn’t tell you anything about the man standing above me past his eyes. They were a shade I’d never seen before—storm-cloud gray like the center of a violent hurricane in the middle of the day. The gray somehow showed warmth and depth, pulling me in closer until we were inches apart, and the tip of my heel nudged his black wingtips.
I studied the careless wisps of white-blond hair parted just off-center, with two stray pieces resting against his forehead, then back to his black jacket, vest, button-down, and pants. A gray pocket square matching his eyes so perfectly—I’d bet he had it specially ordered—peeked out from his blazer, tempting me to pluck it from his pocket and hold it up to his face to compare the shades.
I lifted one corner of my mouth in a sly grin. His eyes followed my hand as I adjusted my dress, and I regretted getting rid of my martini glass. The thought of teasing him by mixing my drink with my finger, then sucking on said finger sounded better than anything I’d done all evening.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?”
“Yes. Yes, I would.” He leaned forward—close enough for me to smell the peppermint clicking against his teeth—and braced one hand on the staircase behind me. “You smell like Pop Rocks and bad decisions.”
“I’ll bet you say that to all the innocent women you try to pick up.” I put one hand on his chest and pushed, lingering a few seconds and feeling the rapid beat of his heart underneath the black vest and shirt.
“I don’t think there’s one damn thing innocent about you,” he said, tracing a long finger down the hand I had against him. My breath hitched at the contact, and sparks danced across my skin as his finger traced patterns on my hand. He leaned closer, his peppermint breath clouding my senses as I lowered my head and looked at him through my lashes.
“Want to get—ouch.” My cheek clunked against Mr. Gray-Eye’s chin, breaking the moment as a guy in a rumpled suit and dark hair elbowed past us with his phone pressed against his ear. He gripped my hand on his chest and pushed it away, taking a step back to track the rude guy as he shoulder-checked someone else and headed outside.
“How rude,” I started, bringing my hand back inside his jacket to that crisp, black shirt, hoping to draw his attention away from the interruption. But whatever I was going to say next got caught in my throat as he turned to me like I was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. His eyes focused on the staircase behind me and back again as I replayed the last thirty seconds in my head, wondering what had gone wrong other than the obnoxious guy with no manners.
My hand went to my cheek, rubbing the tender spot as he took another step back and looked me over, crossing his arms over his chest. The temperature in the room dropped twenty degrees and his gray eyes turned to ice chips.
“I don’t take home drunk women.” He tilted his head and I looked behind me, seeing four empty martini glasses on the staircase.
Drunk? He thought I’d been tossing martinis back all night?
I glanced between the empty glasses and his scowl before he turned on his heel and followed the rude guy out the back door. I pressed my hand to my cheek and rolled my eyes, hurrying across the living room and down a hallway to shut myself in the powder room and lock the door. Bracing my hands on either side of the sink, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. My makeup was on point, and besides a small red mark on my cheek, I looked stone-cold sober.
I am stone-cold sober.
That dickweed assumed I was drunk and turned me down, but the drastic change in his behavior had me thankful for the interruption. I had no desire for that kind of drama in my life. The faucet squeaked and I shook my head, cupping the cold water in my hands and attempting to soothe the sting on my face. Grabbing a fistful of paper towels, I sighed, not liking the reflection staring back at me.
Yep. Time to blow this popsicle stand.
