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I rack my brain, finally deciding that my easiest course of action would be to send Skyla a text saying I’m tired and slip out the front door before anyone can think to try to stop me. It’s a cowardly move but one that would get me out of here the quickest and with the least amount of resistance.
I reach for my phone in the back pocket of my jeans when I sense someone approach from my right. I assume it’s Skyla, or one of her other friends, trying to get me out on the dance floor for the hundredth time in the past hour, and I internally groan. So much for an easy escape. I turn, opening my mouth as I prepare to say something, but immediately snap it shut when I realize the person next to me isn’t one of the girls. But a man... A very, very good-looking man at that.
I take enough time to examine his profile: chiseled jaw covered in short, dark facial hair, defined cheekbones, perfectly symmetrical nose, before quickly averting my gaze.
I feel nervous all of a sudden, anxious even. And even though I tell myself not to look, I can’t stop my gaze from returning in his direction after a few short seconds.
He’s leaning forward, his muscular forearms resting against the bar as he waits for the bartender, who’s busy making mixed shots for a group of girls down at the end. He seems completely oblivious to the fact that I’m staring at him, so I take my time toreallylook at him.
Just by looking at him, I’d guess he’s older than me, maybe by ten years.
He has short, dark hair that’s perfectly styled. Tanned skin, though I’m not sure if it’s actually a tan or his natural color. I’d guess the latter. I briefly wonder where he’s from, before my eyes continue to explore.
Broad shoulders. It’s pretty easy to tell that he works out, especially with how the arms of his black t-shirt strain under the bulge of his bicep muscles.
I absentmindedly lift my hand to my mouth, checking to make sure I’m not drooling. Because if I’m being honest, if I were ever going to drool, now would be the time.
I’m too busy checking him out to realize he’s turned his head until it’s too late...
Busted.
My first instinct is to look away, but when his dark eyes meet mine, it’s almost like they freeze me in place. I can’t blink. Can’t move. Hell, I’m not even sure if I’m breathing.
Seconds tick by, our gazes locked, before I come to my senses and quickly look away.
Only now, I can feel him looking at me, feel the heat from his eyes as they trace a line of fire from the side of my face to where my collarbone dips.
I bounce my leg nervously, trying to stop myself from looking in his direction again, but I can’t resist the pull. And just as I suspected, he’s staring at me.
“Uh...” I clear my throat. “Hi.” My voice sounds too high and squeaky, though I don’t even know if he heard me over the loud thump of the base.
“Hey.” His mouth quirks up in a half smile, revealing a row of perfectly straight white teeth. I swear I nearly topple backward off my stool. If I thought his profile was something to admire, it’s nothing compared to what it’s like to face him head on.
I know with complete certainty that I’ve never met a man this attractive before. Hell, I didn’t know men this attractive actually existed. And now that I’m sitting here in front of one, I feel flustered and out of my element.
It’s not like I’m inexperienced with guys. I’ve had two pretty serious relationships over the last five years. But for some reason, staring at this handsome stranger makes me feel like a nervous teenager who doesn’t have the slightest clue how to talk to a guy.
We remain in this weird stare off for what feels like minutes, but is likely less than a few seconds, before the bartender breaks the connection when he asks the man what he can get for him.
“Whiskey neat.” His voice is like sandpaper and velvet all wrapped into one, smooth and raspy with a thick, sexy accent I can’t quite place. “And she’ll have another.” He gestures to my empty glass.
“No, I’m good,” I sputter out, too quiet for either of them to hear me.
He waits until the bartender turns before turning in my direction.
“You didn’t need to buy me a drink.” I raise my voice to ensure he can hear me clearly. “I was getting ready to leave.”
“After only one drink?” He hitches a dark eyebrow.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” I stupidly answer, having no idea how he knows I’ve only had one drink.
“You don’t like to drink?”
I can barely hear him, but luckily I’m pretty good at reading lips, and dear lord are his lips ones I could read all day. Full, thick lips that I have the urge to drag between my teeth.
Jesus... What is wrong with me? I try to shake off the thought.
“More like drinking doesn’t like me,” I offer, needing to stay focused on something other than his mouth.
