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Until this one.
All he did was order a drink, and my every sense is on high alert, waiting to hear what else he might have to say.
When there’s nothing but silence, I glance away from my empty glass toward my left, curious if the enticing baritone belongs to an equally appealing sight.
I’m not disappointed.
The formerly empty stool one down from mine is now occupied by a man watching as the bartender rushes to pour his drink. His light brown hair is ruffled, like he ran a hand through it recently. Even seated, I can tell he’s tall and muscular, wearing a suit that fits him too perfectly not to be tailored.
He pulls a phone out of his pocket and glances at the screen.
His entire profile tenses as he frowns, then he tucks the phone away as the bartender sets a glass of light brown liquid down in front of him seconds later.
He thanks her.
It’s a small detail. A common courtesy that’s actually rare.
That’s when you learn the most about someone—in the split seconds they’re not expecting to give anything away.
The bartender hovers for a few seconds, like she’s hoping he’ll say something else. All he does is sip and stare at the waterfall. Eventually, she moves down to help another customer.
“It’s a little early to be drinking by Vegas standards, don’t you think?” I’m just buzzed enough voicing that question seems like a smart idea.
Sober, I’m not shy. But I’m calculated. I get a good sense of someone right away. I decide to approach them knowing how they’ll react. With this stranger, I’mwaitingto see how he’ll react.
When I glance over, he’s still looking ahead. Ignoring me.
I study his perfect profile. Every part of it is proportional, all the angles and ridges seamless. The stubble on his jaw is just a dusting, the unyielding line fully visible. It matches his straight nose and squared shoulders. Everything about his appearance and posture seems intentional, like he’s projecting a certain image the world has no choice but to accept.
I’ve given up on a response by the time his head turns in my direction.
The motion is deliberately slow, like he has an endless supply of time to look over. Green eyes meet mine a second before he swipes a thumb across his lower lip, clearing a drop of whiskey.
Fire simmers, low in my stomach. His whole face is attractive, not just his profile. And the full force of his attention hits me like a crashing wave, overwhelming and thrilling and a little terrifying.
“It’s a little hypocritical to be judging, don’t you think?”
Deliberately, he glances at the empty martini glass. And then he looks away.
No flirty comment. No glance at my cleavage. None of the behavior I’d expect from a guy alone in a bar, and my interest in him grows.
“I’ve been called worse.”
His eyes are back on me, just as devastating as the first glance was. One corner of his mouth curls up a centimeter, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it smile. “Me too.”
“Pathetic?” I suggest. “You’re sitting alone in a hotel bar while the sun is still out. AVegashotel bar.”
He makes a show of looking at the empty seat between us. “Who are you here with, again?”
I roll my eyes but can’t help the small smile that appears. Flattery from a stranger is often awkward. I’d rather experience this—someone I’ve never met before matching my sass. Avoiding politeness and diving right into honesty.
“Are you here on a business trip, or something? With a wife at home who doesn’t like to go out past ten, so you forgot how?”
His chuckle is low and dark, and everything south of my naval clenches. “I’m here for a bachelor party,” he answers.
“Yours?”
“Fuck no.”
