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My mouth curled up at her description of the drink, a warmth spreading in my stomach.
Her accent was surprising, like… who was that fella again? The crocodile guy! Aye, Steve Irwin. I half- expected her to say ‘crikey’.
“Mmmmm, it’s just so good.” Her voice was husky and low yet carried through the noise of the lounge to me. My cock stirred to attention.
Her appreciation of the malt was lost on the stock jock. He laughed crudely.
“What, this?” He held up our bottle and shrugged. “If you think that’s good, you should try the new Japanese whisky I’m having. £500 pounds a bottle.”
Japan produced very fine whiskies, but I rolled my eyes at this idiot thinking price was an indication of quality.
“And with the size of my portfolio,” he adjusted his tie and winked. “Money’s not a problem, if you’d like to try it.”
Give. Me. Strength.
I was walking over to her before I realised I was in motion; jaw clenched, teeth bared.
“Lassie is right. That single malt is made with brine and a smoky peat.” The stock jock’s suit didn’t hide his strong build. I didn’t care; I used my bulk to effortlessly push past him and lean against the bar. Facing her, I added, “you’ve got an excellent palette.”
Her eyes widened and her right eyebrow slowly arched as she considered me.
The stock jock scowled.
I straightened, using my bulk to dominate what little space there was between Whisky Girl, as I was calling her in my head, and the jerk.
I gave him The Look. There was a reason I was called the Beast. I was big, which had helped on the rugby field as well as now in the boardroom, and I had a default facial expression that was a cross between a sneer and a frown. The Look sent a message loud and clear to everyone: ‘Don’t Piss Me Off.’
My brother, James, our social media manager, regularly called the look on my face, ‘Resting Beast Face’. Had created a hashtag, too.
The suit shied away from my stare. “You with him or something, love?”
She laid her hand on my bare forearm, nails painted in the same shade as her lipstick. A jolt zapped up my arm at her touch. Her mouth parted, as if in shock. Did she feel that too? Lust tugged at my gut.
She glanced at the man. “I am.”
The suit took a step back, muttered something and walked back to his group. I continued to scowl after him.
“I’m sorry I touched you.” She turned back to me; cheeks flushed. “Seemed the easiest way to get rid of him.”
She pulled her hand away and I instantly missed the heat of her skin on mine.
“I wasn’t complaining,” I rumbled.
“However, I’m quite capable of defending myself. I didn’t need rescuing.”
“You here alone?” I shrugged and downed the rest of my whisky. No friends had come over to help her or even to check to see if she was okay.
“Yes.” She shifted on the bar stool, frowning. “But I’m here for the whisky, not to pick anyone up.”
“Usually women approach me.”
She glared; her face incredulous.
“Played professional rugby, run a successful business and part-own others.” I gave a wry grin. “Women generally appreciate the size of my portfolio.”
She rolled her eyes.
“I don’t know whether to pity you or be disgusted by your arrogance.” She tapped her chin. “Though, I bet you’re equally disgusted by women only chasing your high nett worth. How ironic.”
