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He smells damn good. Faintly of teakwood and eucalyptus. After we left the spa, we changed and went out to dinner. I was vocal about how good his ass looked in the black pants he has on, and demonstrative about my appreciation of the navy blue shirt with a slight sheen to the fabric when I ran my hands over his chest. Bonus: the collar is open, showing his delicious neck leading up to a beard I can’t imagine him without.
I consider biting his neck when he leans closer to give me his ear. I debate a beat before answering, “Surprise me. But not with bourbon.”
“No bourbon?” Lights from the dance floor lend a twinkle to his green eyes, but the mischief there is all Archer.
“Not tonight.”
A dab of seriousness leaks into his expression before he mutters, “Shame.” Then the music changes, and he tucks me close and shuffles me into a few quick dance steps. He’s good. Much better than I am, and expending half the effort.
He lets me go to slide behind the bar and make our drinks. Interested patrons gawk at him, maybe because he’s not dressed like he works here, or maybe because he’s impossible not to admire.
I rest my forearms on the bar top and watch him. Like his dance steps, his movements are smooth. He flips a cup, catches it. Fills it with liquor, flips the bottle, then shakes a metal shaker. The crowd around me whistles. He grins. It’s blindingly beautiful, and my heart squeezes. I’m totally turned on and somewhat possessive when I notice a few other women around me salivating over him.
While he makes drinks, he converses with the bartender. I’m seeing yet another side of Archer I haven’t seen before tonight. In his element, he’s light. Almost, dare I say, frothy. A group gathers in front of the bar as the other bartender yells something into Archer’s ear I have no prayer of hearing thanks to the loud music. I shuffle to the side as a gaggle of women push their way to the bar to order. Archer leans over the bar, cups my jaw, and says loud enough for me to hear, “Wait for me in the VP lounge. Pumpernickel is the password.”
A drink is pressed into my palm. He holds up an open hand and mouths, “Five minutes,” then points at the upstairs deck where, I assume, the VP lounge is located.
He then dives into the gathering crowd, taking orders, preparing drinks, and serving them with both flair and a smile. I watch, awed for a minute, before crossing the dance floor to take the stairs to the area overlooking the club. A bulky guy at the door steps in front of me. I open my mouth to say pumpernickel, but he speaks first.
“I saw you with Archer. Go on in.” He steps aside, and I walk into a virtually empty room.
Five people who appear to be together are grouped in a sunken area with a sofa and a tiny dance floor. Three women are dancing, the two guys settled on the sofa, beers in their grips. There is a private bar up here with a female bartender behind it. Her nametag reads, “Shauna.” Shauna welcomes me to “the VP” and instructs me to hang out wherever I like.
It’s quieter up here than downstairs, thanks in part to a solid wall of glass behind the bar facing the dance floor below.
I meander about until I come to a low metal divider preventing VP guests from toppling over the edge. It’s like a privacy panel with decorative holes in it that you can see through. I settle into one of a pair of cushy red chairs, which gives me a perfect bird’s-eye view of the bar.
Archer mixes drinks while the other bartender takes cash. He leans forward and offers an ear to the group of women who approached as I walked away. One of them touches his arm and keeps her hand there, obviously flirting. I frown.
I imagine this is what his life was like back when I met him at the fundraiser last year. The idea of being one in the long line of women he flirts with is unsatisfying.
I sip my drink, trying to push away feelings that have no business lingering. I had no claim on him back then, and even though I have ended up in his bed, I don’t have a claim on him now, either.
After fifteen minutes of irritating contemplation over whether or not I was claim-worthy to him, I order a drink from Shauna—vodka cranberry this time since I have no idea what Archer mixed up for me. She slides the short glass across the bar, complete with lime wedge, at the same time a broad hand warms my back.
“Bourbon for me, Shaun,” Archer says. She nods, pours, and hands the glass over. He steers me to the same cozy corner from where I was watching him before.
“How did you have time to finish a drink and pull your bartender out of the weeds?”
“I have skills, honey. Bonus points for using restaurant lingo,” he praises before admitting he “lost” his drink after diving in to help Randy. “He was down a bartender, but Michele showed up after all.”
“Is it your habit to hop behind the bar and pour drinks?”
“Pour drinks, take orders, repair the sink.”
“Repair the sink?” I try to picture him repairing a sink. Like him eating cookie dough on my couch, the visual takes me by surprise.
He shrugs and drinks his bourbon, his delectable throat jumping as he swallows. “Whatever it takes. I don’t mind dirty hands.”
He leans back in the fat red chair caddy-corner to mine, his legs spread, his elbows resting on the arms of the chair. Nightlife Kingpin on his throne.
“What are you smiling about?” he asks, a budding smile tickling his own lips.
Instead of answering him, I tip my head toward the floor below where the women I noticed earlier are standing in a circle. They’re young and thin and coiffed. I remember my club days, and the attitude I had back then. Those ladies are on the hunt tonight. “Your fan club misses you.”
He tilts his head to see who I’m talking about, then gives me an admonishing look.
“Is that sort of attention typical?”
