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Good.Real fucking good.
“Uh-huh,” I mumble as I sip the drink, welcoming the burn down my throat. Licking my lips, I’m unable to remove my eyes from her high cheekbones, bowing pouty lips, and heart-shaped face as she continues to multitask, indulging in her magnificence as she stacks a pile of glasses on a dish rack.
I shouldn’t be asking, but I need to know. Speaking loudly to be heard over the music and chatter, I ask, “Do you have a b—?”
But I’m cut off by a drunk customer waving her down, cutting off others as if he’s more important than anyone else waiting at the bar. “Excuse me!” he yells again, and I grind my teeth.
As I turn to her, she offers me a strained smile and dips her head, moving to serve him. Watching him smile at her with dopey eyes makes my blood boil. I need to walk away from him and cool down. It’s getting under my skin. Heck, anything to do with her gets under my skin.But why?
Who fucking knows.
I pick up my glass and drain it before moving to the dingy hallway to seek out the restroom. I don’t miss the way her eyes skim over me as I do, sending a silent thrill through me.
As I come back down the hallway, I have never appreciated the warm, dim lighting except for right now. My eyes connect with her, and the way it hits her pink flushed cheeks enhances her beauty. Illuminates her, as I watch her ass move around the tables, refreshing drinks, and taking orders. The way she works tells me she has been doing this for a while.
And that gets me thinking she couldn’t have a boyfriend, surely. What kind of man would sit back and watch an old man crack on to her and not want to punch the shit out of him? Well, if she was with me, she wouldn’t work here.
My phone chimes in my pocket, pulling me from my thoughts, and I lean against the wall to check it. I see a notification from my assistant.
Cassie:Flight’s delayed by two hours.
I squeeze my eyes shut. Fuck. I’m going to be more tired tomorrow, and even less thrilled to be dealing with the family for Christmas lunch.
I suck in a long breath through my nose and try to be positive.
Walking back to the bar, I’m stopped dead in my tracks when I see her wiping down the counter, her skirt pulled up from the simple task, showing me her toned legs. I wonder if she likes to work out as much as I do.
I’m an early riser who runs or hits the gym in my penthouse before work every day.
I can’t help but notice all the other patrons’ eyes ogling her too, and my jaw clenches. Nope, I definitely don’t like the size of her skirt for work now.
It’s not her fault she’s getting so much attention. She is beautiful, stunningly so, with the hourglass figure that every man in this room wants to have between their palms. But it doesn’t change how protective I’m being all of a sudden.
What is it about her that makes me like this?
I never come back to see the same woman, but with her, I have this need to visit this bar every time I’m in town.
She walks out of sight, so I shake off my wandering thoughts and return to my seat at the high counter. I need another drink stat, to deal with both the flight delay and these men drooling over her. Maybe I need some food too.
“What’s your name?” I ask when she comes to the beer taps to refill a drink. I don’t know why, I need to know it right this minute. Like it matters to me. It’s not like I’m interested in her or anything. I’ve seen her multiple times now and have yet to open that door.
“Sandy,” a woman beside me slurs, sliding her arm over my shoulder. I stiffen, hating the contact even more as I look into her hooded, glassy eyes. Glancing at the woman I was actually asking, I see she is biting her lip until she pops it, and it turns into a cheeky grin. The tension in me dissipates a little, loving her face while wearing humor—it’s sexy.
Just like her.
“I’m not talking to you. I’m asking her.” I tilt my chin.
She opens her mouth, but Sandy interrupts, saying, “Gracie. But she is twenty-six, so a little young for you, don’t you think?”
What is this lady talking about? I’ve only asked for a name, not a hand in marriage. Fuck, this is getting out of control.
Gracie’s face falls, and as she grabs my empty glass, I cover her hand with mine. She stills under my touch.
Our gazes lock, and I say, “I think it’s her choice.”
Gracie’s face softens. I would say she agrees.
Sandy squeezes my shoulder, whispering not so quietly in my ear, “If you say so, but I think I’m closer to your age and much better suited.”
