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I inhale the drink, and his eyebrows rise.
"What?" I glower up at the bartender. "I can barely taste the alcohol. Besides, it’s free drinks at happy hour for women, right?"
"Which ends in precisely" he holds up five fingers, "minutes."
"Oh! Yay!" I mock fist pump. "Time enough for one more, at least."
A hiccough swells my throat and I swallow it back, nod.
One has to do what one has to do… when everything else in the world is going to shit.
A hot sensation stabs behind my eyes; my chest tightens. Is this what people call growing up?
The bartender tips his mixing flask, strains out a fresh batch of the ruby red liquid onto the glass in front of me.
"Salut." I nod my thanks, then toss it back. It hits my stomach and tendrils of fire crawl up my spine, I cough.
My head spins. Warmth sears my chest, spreads to my extremities. I can’t feel my fingers or toes. Good. Almost there. "Top me up."
"You sure?"
"Yes." I square my shoulders and reach for the drink.
"No. She’s had enough."
"What the—?" I pivot on the bar stool.
Indigo eyes bore into me.
Fathomless. Black at the bottom, the intensity in their depths grips me. He swoops out his arm, grabs the glass and holds it up. Thick fingers dwarf the glass. Tapered at the edges. The nails short and buff.All the better to grab you with. I gulp.
"Like what you see?"
I flush, peer up into his face.
Hard cheekbones, hollows under them, and a tiny scar that slashes at his left eyebrow.How did he get that?Not that I care. My gaze slides to his mouth. Thin upper lip, a lower lip that is full and cushioned. Pouty with a hint of bad boy.Oh!My toes curl. My thighs clench.
The corner of his mouth kicks up.Asshole.
Bet he thinks life is one big smug-fest. I glower, reach for my glass, and he holds it up and out of my reach.
I scowl, "Gimme that."
He shakes his head.
"That’s my drink."
"Not anymore." He shoves my glass at the bartender. "Water for her. Get me a whiskey, neat."
I splutter, then reach for my drink again. The barstool tips, in his direction. This is when I fall against him, and my breasts slam into his hard chest, sculpted planes with layers upon layers of muscle that ripple and writhe as he turns aside, flattens himself against the bar. The floor rises up to meet me.
What the actual hell?
I twist my torso at the last second and my butt connects with the surface.Ow!
The breath rushes out of me. My hair swirls around my face. I scrabble for purchase, and my knee connects with his leg.
"Watch it." He steps around, stands in front of me.
